Sporting 
Stories 

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SPORTING   STORIES 


BY 


''THORMANBY" 


BOSTON 
DANA  ESTES  &  COMPANY 


Copyright  in  the  British  Empire  of  MILLS  &  BOOX,  Ltd. 
Printed  by  Rorvetl  &"  Sons,  London. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

1.  TURFITES    ON   THE   GRAND    SCALE 

2.  THE    FATHERS    OF    BOOKMAKING 

3.  SOME   LATTER-DAY    PENCILLERS 

4.  PARTNERS    AND   PLUNGERS 

5.  TRAINERS    AND   JOCKEYS 

6.  THE   WASTING    OF   JOCKEYS 

7.  QUEER   CHARACTERS    OF    THE    TURF 

8.  THE   FIRST   STEEPLECHASE   AND    ITS    SEQUEL 

9.  THE   ADVENTURES    OF   TOM    OLLIVER     . 

10.  JEM    MASON    AND    LOTTERY 

11.  THE    HUMOURS    OF   TOMMY    COLEMAN     . 

12.  THE    RECORD    OF    CAPTAIN    BEECHER — SOME   STEEPLE 

CHASING    GOSSIP 

13.  TIPS   FROM    STRANGE   SOURCES 

14.  THE    ROUT    OF    THE   THIMBLE-MEN 

15.  PRECOCITY    IN    THE   SADDLE       . 

16.  FOUL   RIDING    AND    FOUL   PLAY 

17.  THE   ARAB   AND   THE   ENGLISH    RACEHORSE 

18.  FEATS    OF    EQUINE    ENDURANCE 

19.  SPORT    AT    THE    ' VARSITIES 

20.  'varsity    STEEPLECHASES 

21.  OLD-TIME    ECCENTRICS    OF    SPORT 
2  2.  SOME    HUMOURS   OF    THE    HUNTING-FIELD 

23.  THE   PERILS    AND    PENALTIES    OF   HUNTING 

24.  THE   MOST   EXTRAORDINARY   JUMP    ON    RECORD 

25.  DRIVING    AND    TROTTING 


7 
•  25 

35 
44 
60 

73 
79 
88 

94 
99 

105 
no 
116 
122 
126 
130 

135 
141 

153 
158 
166 
170 
177 
183 


CONTENTS 


26.  SOME   NOTABLE    HORSE-BREAKERS 

27.  HORSE-DEALERS    AND    HORSE-STEALERS 

28.  THE      ISLE      OF      MAN      AND      THE     FIRST     DERBY,     AND 

GOODWOOD  . 

29.  HEROES    OF   THE   LEASH 

30.  THE   COCKPIT    . 

31.  THE    PRIZE    RING 

32.  THE   NOBLE   ART    OF   SELF-DEFENCE 

33.  CHAMPIONS    I    HAVE    KNOWN       . 

34.  GUN    STORIES     . 

35.  DOG   STORIES     . 

36.  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    RIFLE   SHOOTING 

37.  FISHING    YARNS 

38.  CRICKET,    PAST   AND   PRESENT 

39.  ARE   CRICKETERS    SHORT-LIVED? 

40.  FOOTBALL   AND    ITS   TRADITIONS 

41.  A   GOSSIP    ON    GOLF 

42.  GIANTS    OF    THE   LINKS 

43.  THE   ORIGIN   OF    POLO 

44.  HOW    POLO   CAME   TO    ENGLAND 

45.  THE    BOARD    OF   GREEN    CLOTH 

46.  BLIND   SPORTSMEN 

47.  SPORTSMEN   OF   THE   BENCH   AND    BAR 

48.  A   GOSSIP   ON    HUNTING   MEN      . 

49.  AN     OLD     squire's     DIARY    AND     A    CAVALIER'S     NOTE 

BOOK 

50.  REMARKABLE  RACING  DREAMS 
INDEX  TO  PERSONS  MENTIONED  IN  THE  BOOK 


PAGE 
188 

197 


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210 

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252 

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276 
283 
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301 
307 

320 
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337 
342 
351 

362 

371 
381 


SPORTING  STORIES 

CHAPTER  I 

TURFITES  ON  THE  GRAND  SCALE 

It  is  in  the  guise  of  a  gossip  that  I  here  present  myself 
to  the  reader,  and  I  claim  but  the  indulgence  commonly 
allowed  to  such  purveyors  of  amusement.  If,  haply,  I  may 
be  so  fortunate  as  to  gain  the  reputation  of  an  "  Agreeable 
Rattle,"  like  the  gentleman  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  my 
aspirations  will  have  been  attained. 

I  have  gathered  together  in  a  "  mixed  bag "  scattered 
"  ana "  of  sport,  culled  from  the  diaries  and  memories 
of  sporting  celebrities  and  the  personal  recollection  of 
veteran  sportsmen  whom  I  have  known  ;  from  half- 
forgotten  books  ;  from  rare  old  newspapers  and  magazines  ; 
from  all  sorts  of  curious,  fugitive,  out-of-the-way  sketches 
which  I  have  unearthed  in  the  course  of  many  years'  de- 
sultory research.  Out  of  this  miscellaneous  collection  I 
have  endeavoured  to  piece  together  a  mosaic — a  picture 
which  will  enable  sportsmen  of  to-day  to  form  an  idea  of 
the  life  which  their  fathers,  grandfathers,  and  great-grand- 
fathers led,  and  the  nature  of  the  sports  which  they 
enjoyed. 

In  this  anecdotal  medley  I  give  first  place  to  the  Turf, 
the  most  universally  popular  of  our  national  sports.  I 
have  swept  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  racing  men  into  my 
net — princes  and  peers  ;  plungers  and  blacklegs  ;  trainers 
and  jockeys ;  bookmakers,  touts,  welshers,  card-sellers — and 
I  have  collected  anecdotes  illustrative  of  the  characters  and 
eccentricities  of  all. 

And,  first,  I  shall  take  the  Turf  in  its  gambling  phase 

7 


8  SPORTING   STORIES 

as  being,  on  the  whole,  the  most  humanly  interesting.  It 
has  been  gravely  asserted  by  an  eminent  writer  on  British 
sports,  that  "the  sole  object  for  which  horse-racing  was 
originally  established,  and  has  since  been  supported  by 
the  powers  that  be,  is,  confessedly,  the  encouragement  of 
the  breed  of  English  horses." 

I  think  the  writer  must  have  had  his  tongue  in  his  cheek 
when  he  penned  that  solemn  piece  of  humbug.  If  horse- 
racing  had  not  appealed  to  the  gambling  and  sporting 
instincts  of  mankind,  it  would  have  died  a  natural  death 
ages  ago.  There  was  never  a  time  in  its  history  when 
wagering  was  not  inseparably  connected  with  it.  Let  old 
Robert  Burton  bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  my  assertion  in 
his  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  published  in  162 1,  in  which 
he  says :  "  Riding  of  great  horses,  runnings  at  rings,  tilts, 
and  tournaments,  horse  races,  wild  goose  chases,  which  are 
disports  for  the  great,  are  good  in  themselves,  though  many 
gentlemen  by  that  means  gallop  quite  out  of  their  fortunes." 
Clearly,  then,  there  were  plungers  in  Burton's  day  who 
ruined  themselves  by  betting  on  horse-races. 

In  the  very  same  year  the  Scottish  Parliament  passed 
an  Act  to  prevent  "excessive  wagering  on  horse-races,  the 
same  having  caused  great  scandal  in  the  kingdom."  And  a 
hundred  years  later  John  Lawrence,  the  greatest  authority 
of  his  day  on  horses  and  racing,  writes : — 

"  On  the  connection  of  games  of  chance  with  the  horse- 
course  it  is  perfectly  useless  to  declaim,  since  they  are  a 
natural  concomitant,  indissolubly  blended  with  a  sport 
which  seems  destined  to  interest  the  passions  of  a  portion 
of  the  higher  classes.  In  fact,  to  take  away  from  the  Turf 
its  pecuniary  interest,  were  that  possible,  would  be  to  de- 
prive it  of  one  of  its  greatest  attractions  and  most  powerful 
spurs  to  emulation." 

But  enough  on  this  point :  let  me  pass  to  individual 
instances  of  old-time  gambling  on  race-horses.  The  first 
great  plunger  of  whom  I  have  any  record  was  George 
Clifford,  Earl  of  Cumberland,  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  even  in  "  the  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth."  If 
you  look  him  up  in  any  dictionary  of  biography  you  will 
find  him  designated  "eminent  naval  commander";  though 


TURFITES    ON   THE   GRAND    SCALE     9 

in  Vincent's  well-known  work  he  is  styled,  with  less  courtesy 
but  perhaps  more  truth,  "  pirate  or  privateer." 

Now  sailors,  as  a  rule,  are  not  supposed  to  have  much 
knowledge  of  horses,  though  Admiral  Rous  was  a  notable 
exception.  But  in  the  Elizabethan  age  sailors  were  am- 
phibious creatures,  and  my  Lord  of  Cumberland  was  as 
passionate  a  lover  of  racing  as  any  landsman.  His  personal 
appearance  was  enough  to  have  made  him  a  noteworthy 
personage  in  any  company.  His  singularly  handsome  face, 
his  powerful  figure,  his  haughty  carriage,  his  magnificent 
dress,  must  have  made  him  conspicuous  even  among  the  host 
of  "  tall  and  proper  men "  whom  the  virgin  queen  loved 
to  gather  round  her;  and  he  was  indeed  high  in  favour  with 
Her  Majesty,  whose  passion  for  stalwart  and  good-looking 
gentlemen  was  of  a  nature  to  create  much  scandal. 

He  distinguished  himself  in  the  great  fight  against  the 
Spanish  Armada,  as  commander  of  the  Bonaventura,  and 
had  the  honour  of  carrying  the  news  of  victory  to  Elizabeth 
at  Tilbury. 

He  was  a  born  gambler,  and  when  he  found  that  neither 
plundering  Spanish  galleons  nor  the  less  noble  pastimes  of 
dice  and  cards  satisfied  his  craving  for  excitement  and 
speculation,  he  took  to  horse-racing,  and  on  the  Turf  he 
was  able  to  gratify  to  the  full  his  passion  for  gambling. 
One  after  another  his  estates  were  sold  to  pay  his  racing 
debts  and  the  expenses  of  the  enormous  stud  he  maintained. 
And  there  would  soon  have  been  nothing  left  for  his  heirs 
had  not  a  fatal  sickness  struck  him  down  and  put  an  end 
to  his  plunging.  He  died,  I  learn  from  a  contemporary 
record,  "  a  very  penitent  man  in  the  duchy  house  called 
the  Savoy,  October  30,  1605,  aged  47  years." 

Of  a  very  different  and  far  more  common  type  was  the 
next  "plunger"  of  whom  I  find  any  record  in  the  annals  of 
the  Turf,  to  wit,  Sir  Richard  Gargrave,  Bart.,  of  Nostal  and 
Kinsley  in  Yorkshire.  He  succeeded  to  the  title  and 
estates  in  1605,  the  year  in  which  George  Clifford,  Earl  of 
Cumberland,  died  ;  and  the  vastness  of  his  possessions  may 
be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  he  could  ride  from  Wakefield 
to  Doncaster  without  leaving  his  own  land.  But  the  fabled 
purse  of  Fortunatus  would  have  failed  to  meet  the  demands 


10  SPORTING   STORIES 

of  such  a  spendthrift  as  Richard  Gargrave.  When  he 
became  Sheriff  his  extravagance  was  so  wild  that  I  think 
he  must  have  inherited  a  taint  of  madness.  In  private  Hfe 
he  seems  to  have  exhibited  eccentricities  similar  to  those 
of  such  notorious  sporting  lunatics  as  Lord  Barrymore, 
Jack  Mytton,  and  Mad  Windham.  Even  now  there  linger 
traditions  of  his  midnight  orgies,  his  insane  wagers,  his 
appalling  losses  at  cards  and  on  the  Turf.  He  is  described 
in  contemporary  records  as  a  "  notorious  horse-courser," 
and  a  horse-courser  was  the  term  applied  to  a  man  who 
ran  his  horses  for  great  sums  of  money,  not  without  a 
suspicion  of  sharp  practice.  He  bred  and  raced  "  innumer- 
able running  horses  of  great  speed,"  which  apparently 
were  not  quite  speedy  enough,  as  they  soon  brought  him 
to  ruin. 

Roger  Dodsworth,  the  Yorkshire  antiquary,  writing  in 
1634,  says:  "He  now  lyveth  in  the  Temple  (Alsatia)  for 
sanctuary,  having  consumed  his  whole  estate  to  the  value 
of  i^3500  per  annum  at  least,  and  hath  not  a  penny  to 
maintain  himself  but  what  the  purchasers  of  some  part  of 
his  lands  in  reversion  allow  him."  It  must  be  remembered 
that  in  those  days  ^^300  a  year  was  considered  a  good 
income  for  a  country  gentleman,  and  a  squire  with  ^500 
a  year  was  regarded  as  wealthy.  Sir  Richard  Gargrave's 
;^3500  would  therefore  have  been  equivalent  to  at  least 
;^20,ooo  a  year  in  the  present  day. 

Finally,  the  gentleman  who  had  owned  one  of  the 
largest  estates  in  Yorkshire  was  reduced  to  be  an  attendant 
of  a  team  of  pack-horses.  Sir  Richard  Gargrave  seems  to 
have  followed  this  occupation  for  a  couple  of  years.  It 
was  the  last  phase  of  his  chequered  career.  For,  one  night, 
after  he  had  brought  his  pack-horses  safely  into  London, 
he  got  gloriously  drunk  in  an  old  Southwark  hostelry,  and 
the  next  morning  was  found  lying  dead  in  the  stable,  with 
his  head  pillowed  on  a  pack-saddle.  So  died  the  greatest 
"  horse-courser"  of  his  time. 

These  two  plungers  were,  at  any  rate,  honest  sportsmen. 
They  paid  their  debts  and  their  wagers  so  long  as  they 
had  a  gold  piece  left.  But  there  were  others  less  honour- 
able— defaulters  of  a  type  familiar  to  the  bookmakers  of 


TURFITES   ON   THE   GRAND   SCALE   11 

to-day.  There  is,  for  example,  something  very  suspicious 
about  the  following  passage  from  a  letter  dated  20th  March 
1634 :  "  The  Earl  of  Southampton,  they  say,  hath  lost  a 
great  deal  of  monie  latelie  at  the  Horse  Races  at  New- 
market ;  but  true  it  is,  he  hath  licence  to  travel  for  three 
years,  and  is  gone  in  all  haste  to  France."  I  suspect  that 
some  of  those  to  whom  the  Earl  of  Southampton  had  lost 
money  were  left  lamenting  when  that  noble  sportsman 
made  his  hurried  exit. 

The  eighteenth  century  is  rich  in  betting  "  ana,"  from 
Royalty  downwards.  Although  the  actual  occupants  of  the 
throne  showed  little  or  no  interest  in  racing,  the  sport  had 
the  enthusiastic  patronage  of  some  lesser  stars  of  royalty, 
among  them  two  Princes  of  Wales  and  four  Royal  Dukes. 

First  and  foremost  was  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  eldest 
son  of  George  the  Second,  and  father  of  George  the  Third. 
Scarcely  anyone  had  a  good  word  to  say  for  "  poor  Fred  " 
in  his  lifetime.  His  father  detested  him.  His  mother, 
Queen  Caroline,  writing  to  John,  Lord  Harvey,  thus  ex- 
pressed her  opinion  of  her  eldest  born  : — 

"  My  dear  Lord,  I  will  give  it  to  you  under  my  own 
hand  if  you  are  in  any  fear  of  my  relapsing,  that  my  dear 
first-born  is  the  greatest  ass,  and  the  greatest  liar,  and  the 
greatest  canaille,  and  the  greatest  beast  in  the  whole  world, 
and  I  heartily  wish  he  were  out  of  it." 

But  the  King's  loathing  for  the  Prince  of  Wales  was 
something  even  stronger  and  more  horrible.  What  had 
"  poor  Fred "  done  to  deserve  such  hatred  and  loathing 
from  his  own  parents  ?  Well,  he  was  not  a  nice  young 
man  according  to  our  modern  notions,  but  he  was  no  worse 
than  dozens  of  others  about  the  Court,  whose  peccadilloes 
never  provoked  such  a  storm  of  execration  as  fell  on  "  poor 
Fred."  He  was  no  worse  in  his  morals  than  his  younger 
brother,  William  Augustus,  Duke  of  Cumberland,  yet  the 
latter  was  to  the  last  a  persona  grata  at  his  father's  Court. 

But,  whatever  else  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  may  have 
been,  he  certainly  was  a  keen  sportsman,  thoroughly 
English  in  his  sporting  tastes.  He  loved  hunting,  racing, 
yachting,  angling,  cricket,  and  hawking.  He  was  a  very 
heavy  bettor,  not  only  on  the  Turf,  but  on  every  amuse- 


12  SPORTING   STORIES 

ment  he  indulged  in.  He  was  an  enthusiastic  cricketer, 
and  he  and  his  brother,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  who  was 
equally  keen  on  the  game,  were  perpetually  getting  up 
matches  against  one  another,  each  heavily  backing  his  own 
eleven.  But  Fred  went  further  than  this  :  he  had  a  bet  on 
every  run,  or  notch,  as  it  was  then  termed,  that  was  made. 

Now,  to  be  a  patron  of  cricket  in  those  days  was  con- 
sidered by  respectable  persons  to  be  a  mark  of  the  most 
depraved  taste.  It  was  in  far  worse  repute  as  a  pastime 
than  even  the  Prize  Ring,  which  Broughton  had  just  brought 
into  fashion,  and  it  was  denounced  in  far  stronger  language 
than  the  Anti-Gambling  League  nowadays  uses  against  the 
Turf.  For  example,  I  find  the  following  tirade  against  "  the 
noble  game"  in  the  GentleinarCs  Magazine  of  1743  : — 

"  The  diversion  of  cricket  may  be  proper  in  holiday  time 
and  in  the  country,  but  upon  days  when  men  ought  to  be 
busy,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  great  city,  it  is  not 
only  improper,  but  mischievous  to  a  high  degree.  It  draws 
numbers  of  people  from  their  employment,  to  the  ruin  of 
their  families.  It  brings  together  crowds  of  apprentices 
and  servants  whose  time  is  not  their  own.  It  propagates 
a  spirit  of  idleness  at  a  juncture  when,  with  the  utmost 
industry,  our  debts,  taxes,  and  decay  of  trade  will  scarcely 
allow  us  to  get  bread.  It  is  the  most  notorious  breach  of 
the  laws,  as  it  gives  the  most  open  encouragement  to 
gaming,  the  advertisements  most  impudently  reciting  that 
great  sums  are  laid,  so  that  some  people  are  so  little 
ashamed  of  breaking  the  laws  which  they  had  a  hand  in 
making,  that  they  give  public  notice  of  it." 

No  one  blamed  either  the  Prince  of  Wales  or  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland  much  for  their  patronage  of  the  Turf,  or 
even  of  the  Prize  Ring,  but  all  the  moralists  of  the  age 
were  down  upon  them  for  patronising  the  dreadfully  low, 
demoralising  game  of  cricket !  There  were  even  some 
who  went  so  far  as  to  regard  "  poor  Fred's  "  death  from 
the  results  of  an  accident  at  cricket  as  a  judgment  upon 
him  for  engaging  in  that  disreputable  and  immoral 
pastime ! 

On  the  race-course  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  a  plunger  of 
the  most  pronounced  type,  and  his  losses  at  Newmarket 


TURFITES   ON   THE   GRAND   SCALE    13 

and  Ascot  were  sometimes  appalling.  For,  unlike  his 
brother  of  Cumberland,  he  backed  his  fancy  recklessly, 
regardless  of  public  form  or  anything  else. 

But  the  "  Butcher  of  Culloden  "  was  not  always  wise  in 
his  wagering,  and  the  "  legs  "  made  a  good  haul  out  of 
him  before  the  breath  left  his  burly  carcase.  A  story  is 
told  of  him  which  shows  that  he  was  totally  reckless  in 
his  wagers.  At  one  Newmarket  meeting  he  lost  his  pocket- 
book  on  the  Heath.  Upon  discovering  his  loss  he  said  he 
would  make  no  more  bets,  as  he  had  lost  enough  for  one 
day.  When  the  races  were  over  his  pocket-book  was 
brought  to  him  by  a  half-pay  officer  who  had  picked  it  up. 
"  Keep  it,  sir,"  said  his  Royal  Highness  ;  "  I  am  only  glad  it 
has  fallen  into  such  good  hands,  for  if  I  had  not  lost  it  as 
I  did,  its  contents  would  by  this  time  have  been  scattered 
among  the  blacklegs  of  Newmarket."  So  the  astonished 
finder  of  the  pocket-book  found  himself  suddenly  the  pos- 
sessor of  some  hundreds  of  pounds.  The  story  illustrates 
at  once  the  Duke's  careless  good-nature  and  his  want  of 
faith  in  his  own  judgment. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FATHERS  OF  BOOKMAKING 

Everyone  who  knows  anything  of  the  Turf  nowadays 
will  admit  that  the  professional  bookmakers  are  a  respect- 
able body  of  men.  They  are  usually  of  a  generous  dis- 
position, and  liberal  donors  to  charitable  institutions.  No 
doubt  there  are  some  "  wrong  uns  "  among  them,  but  there 
is  no  flock  without  some  black  sheep,  and  I  should  say 
that  there  are  as  few  in  the  fraternity  of  bookmakers  as 
elsewhere.  But  it  was  not  always  thus.  The  fathers  of 
the  "  Betting  Ring  "  were  sharpers  pure  and  simple,  and  the 
name  by  which  they  generally  went,  "  Blacklegs,"  shortened 
subsequently  into  "  legs,"  shows  what  the  sporting  world 
thought  of  them. 

They  were  proficient  at  cards  and  billiards,  besides  being 
well  posted  in  Turf  matters.  Every  one  of  them  carried  his 
own  loaded  dice,  and  they  made  more  money  by  plucking 
pigeons  at  the  gaming-tables  than  by  laying  odds  on  the 
race-course.  Yet  many  of  them  came  into  touch  with  the 
best  sportsmen  of  the  day.  On  the  Turf,  at  any  rate,  the 
"  leg's"  money  was  as  good  as  anyone  else's.  He  was  always 
ready  to  lay  odds,  and  he  always  paid  up  when  he  lost. 

One  of  the  earliest  and  most  successful  of  these  "  legs  " 
was  the  notorious  Colonel  O'Kelly,  owner  of  the  immortal 
Eclipse.  Dennis  O'Kelly  was  an  accomplished  maker  of 
matches  as  well  as  a  phenomenally  successful  breeder;  but 
there  was  a  strong  smack  of  the  blackguard  about  him. 
Originally  a  sedan-chair  man,  his  elegant  legs  and  fine 
figure  took  a  lady's  fancy,  and  she  started  him  in  life  as  a 
"  jontleman."  He,  to  be  in  harmony  with  his  new  position 
in  life,  took  to  gambling,  and  at  first  was  far  from  being 
lucky.     He  had  actually  got  hold  of  the  lady's  last  ;^ioo, 

14 


111  b 
CO     . 

a   = 

:^ 

o  ^ 


THE  FATHERS  OF  BOOKMAKING  15 

when  fortune  smiled  upon  him,  and  he  not  only  got  back 
all  he  had  lost,  but  ;^3000  in  addition.  But  it  was  not  so 
much  luck  as  ability  that  led  him  on  to  fortune.  He  made 
his  calculations  so  carefully,  that  bets  which  were  matters  of 
chance  with  many,  with  him  became  certainties. 

And  yet  he  was  not  happy,  for  with  all  his  money  he 
could  neither  get  into  any  of  the  London  clubs  nor  gain 
election  to  the  Jockey  Club.  This  annoyed  him  dreadfully, 
and  he  never  missed  having  a  fling  at  those  members  of 
the  aristocracy  who,  he  thought,  were  the  cause  of  his  being 
blackballed  on  every  occasion  he  had  put  up  for  election. 
For  instance,  when  he  asked  Frank  Buckle  what  he  wanted 
yearly  for  the  first  call  upon  his  services,  the  jockey  replied 
"  ;^400 " — a  large  sum  at  that  time,  and  double  what 
George  IV.,  when  Prince  of  Wales,  gave  the  elder  Chiffney. 
"  Agreed,"  said  O'Kelly  ;  "  and  if  you'll  promise  not  to  ride 
at  all  for  any  of  the  blacklegged  fraternity  I'll  double  the 
wages."  To  the  inquiry  as  to  wjiom  he  meant,  O'Kelly 
answered :  "  Who  should  I  mean  but  the  Duke  of  Cleve- 
land, the  Duke  of  Grafton,  Lords  Abingdon,  Foley,  and 
Derby,  and  a  lot  more  " ;  but  as  Dennis's  list  included  the 
names  of  all  the  foremost  men  on  the  Turf,  Buckle  re- 
spectfully declined  the  offer. 

But  though  Dennis  O'Kelly  could  not  get  into  Society 
by  the  front  door,  he  managed  to  climb  up  by  the  back- 
stairs. With  his  "  guardian  angel,"  Charlotte  Hayes,  whom 
he  first  met  in  the  Fleet  Prison,  and  to  whom  he  owed  his 
escape  from  that  debtors'  Inferno  and  his  elevation  to 
prosperity,  he  kept  open  house  at  his  beautiful  "  Cottage  " 
at  Clay  Hill,  near  Epsom.  The  Society  which  the  Colonel 
and  Charlotte  entertained  was  certainly  mixed,  but  it 
included  some  of  the  highest  personages  in  the  land.  The 
Prince  of  Wales,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  Lord  Egremont,  Lord  Grosvenor,  and  many  other 
noble  sportsmen  condescended  to  partake  of  the  magnifi- 
cent hospitality  dispensed  so  charmingly  by  their  lively 
and  entertaining  host  and  hostess.  The  wines  were  superb, 
the  cuisine  of  the  choicest,  and  the  motto  of  the  house  wa? 
"  Do  what  you  please."  It  was  Liberty  Hall  in  the  broadest 
sense ;    and    yet,   strange    to    say,   though  an    inveterate 


16  SPORTING   STORIES 

gambler  elsewhere,  O'Kelly  would  allow  no  gambling  at 
Clay  Hill,  and  when  on  his  death  he  left  his  fine  estates  of 
Clay  Hill  and  Cannon  Park  to  his  nephew,  he  made  it  a 
condition  that  his  heir  should  forfeit  ;^500  for  every  bet  he 
made  on  the  Turf.  George  Fordham,  by  the  way,  left  a 
somewhat  similar  injunction  in  his  will,  with  a  view  to 
checking  any  disposition  to  betting  in  his  son. 

Another  and  less  pleasing  specimen  of  an  early  "  leg  "  was 
Dick,  alias  "  Captain,"  England,  one  of  the  most  unmitigated 
ruffians  ever  connected  with  the  English  Turf.  Uneducated, 
crafty,  unscrupulous,  and  strong,  he  bullied  and  cheated 
dozens  of  young  fellows  out  of  their  fortunes.  One,  the 
Honourable  Mr  Darner,  he  robbed  of  ^^"40,000,  the  result 
being  that  the  poor  lad  committed  suicide  rather  than 
face  his  father.  The  same  unprincipled  scoundrel  led 
young  Clutterbuck,  a  Bank  of  England  clerk,  to  commit 
forgery  to  a  large  amount,  for  which  he  was  hanged. 

Having  won  50  guineas  from  a  Major  Campbell,  that 
gentleman  gave  Dick  an  order  on  Goslings,  the  bankers 
of  Fleet  Street,  for  the  amount.  Calling  a  coach,  the 
winner  went  at  once  to  cash  it ;  but  as  he  pronounced  the 
name  Go-sling,  no  one  could  direct  him  to  the  bank. 
Thinking  he  had  been  done,  he  sat  down  and  penned  the 
following  note  to  Major  Campbell : — 

"  Mr  Meijer, — I  toke  ye  for  a  gentleman,  but  if  you  don't 
take  up  that  damned  piece  of  thick  paper  which  you  did 
give  me,  by  the  X  of  St  Pathrick  I  will  dock  you  closer 
than  I  did  the  French  wig-maker.  Some  gentlemen  would 
have  hexposed  you  by  showing  the  name  Go-sling  when 
there  is  no  such  name  at  all,  at  all.  Pay  the  fifty  or  take 
yer  fat. — yer  injered  friend,  RICHARD  ENGLAND." 

To  this  Major  Campbell  sent  a  gentlemanly  but  sarcastic 
reply,  which  Dick  got  an  associate  to  read  ;  and  the  latter, 
finding  that  the  other  still  fancied  that  he  had  been 
swindled,  gave  him  45  guineas  for  the  draft  for  50,  and 
cashed  it  himself. 

A  Mr  Stubbs  got  out  of  Dick  England's  clutches  as  well 
as  anyone.  Mr  S.  had  a  peculiar  habit  of  keeping  one  eye 
shut,  but  on  any  occasion  of  surprise  or  alarm  it  as  invariably 


THE   FATHERS   OF   BOOKMAKING    17 

opened.  He  made  a  bet  with  "  Captain  "  England  in  the 
ring  at  Newmarket,  and  lost  it ;  but  when  not  thinking 
about  the  wager  Mr  Stubbs  was  suddenly  accosted  by  the 
winner,  and  asked  for  the  money.  The  sudden  shock  had 
the  usual  effect  on  the  optic.  "  Eh,  what !  "  said  Mr  Stubbs, 
with  a  look  of  inquiry.  Dick  stared  him  in  the  face,  and 
observing  his  perfect  vision,  replied,  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sorr,  I  took  ye  for  somebody  else  "  ;  muttering  to  himself  as 
he  walked  on,  "  Begorra,  the  fellow  I  bet  wid  was  a  one- 
eyed  one  ;  that's  not  the  man." 

On  another  occasion  England's  temper  led  him  into  a 
more  tragic  encounter.  There  was  Mr  Peter  Le  Roules,  a 
wealthy  brewer  of  Kingston-on-Thames,  with  whom  Dick 
had  some  extensive  betting  transactions.  Mr  Le  Roules 
gave  England  a  bond  as  security  for  large  sums  borrowed 
and  lost.  But  when  called  upon  to  pay  he  repudiated  the 
bond,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  been  robbed  and  swindled. 
Meeting  Le  Roules  at  Ascot  Races,  Dick's  temper  got  the 
better  of  him,  and  he  roundly  abused  the  brewer  in  public, 
denouncing  him  as  a  swindler  who  would  neither  pay  his 
debts  of  honour  nor  refund  the  money  he  had  borrowed. 
Le  Roules  promptly  challenged  England,  and  they  fought 
a  desperate  duel  at  Cranford  Bridge,  in  Middlesex,  on  i8th 
June,  1794.  Six  shots  apiece  were  exchanged,  and  with 
his  sixth  shot  England  mortally  wounded  his  antagonist. 

Dick  fled  the  country  and  took  refuge  in  Paris.  But 
there  he  was  mistaken  for  an  aristocrat  by  the  Revolutionists 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror  and  sentenced  to  death.  He  was 
actually  standing  beneath  the  guillotine,  waiting  his  turn  for 
execution,  when  the  reprieve  arrived,  and  he  was  saved  in 
the  nick  of  time. 

He  thought  it  better  then  to  go  back  to  England  and 
give  himself  up  to  justice,  rather  than  remain  amongst  these 
bloodthirsty  French  fanatics.  So  he  returned,  and  was 
tried  for  murder  ;  but  the  jury  found  him  guilty  only  of 
manslaughter,  and  he  received  the  lenient  sentence  of  one 
shilling  fine  and  twelve  months'  imprisonment  without  hard 
labour.  After  that,  his  character  was  no  more  called  in 
question,  and  he  pursued  his  calling  as  a  "  leg "  until  he 
died  peacefully  in  his  bed  at  the  age  of  80. 

2 


18  SPORTING   STORIES 

But  the  first  two  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century  pro- 
duced the  real  fathers  of  the  Betting  Ring  and  inventors 
of  the  art  of  bookmaking  —  "Crutch"  Robinson,  Jem 
Bland,  Jerry  Cloves,  Myers  Richards,  Mat  Milton,  Tommy 
Swan  of  Bedale,  John  Justice,  John  Gully,  and  WiUiam 
Crockford. 

For  the  most  part  the  early  bookmakers  were  a  low  type 
of  horsey  men,  who  had  originally  been  grooms  and 
hangers  about  racing  stables.  Many  of  them  could  not 
write  their  own  names  or  read  even  the  contents  of  a  race- 
card.  But  if  they  could  neither  read  nor  write  they  could 
"  soom  "  (as  a  celebrated  Yorkshire  sportsman  used  to  say) 
against  anyone,  and  their  feats  in  mental  arithmetic  were 
marvellous. 

Let  us  take  a  glance  at  some  of  the  most  notable  among 
them.  First  and  foremost  comes  old  "  Crutch  "  Robinson — 
a  little,  shrewd,  wizened-faced  man,  whose  coat  hung  on 
his  back  like  a  towel  on  a  rail,  a  queer,  uncouth-looking 
creature,  who  spoke  a  dialect  which  seemed  a  cross  between 
Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  but  withal  a  straightforward 
man  and  as  sharp  as  they  make  them.  That  his  origin 
was  of  the  lowest  there  could  be  no  doubt,  and  there 
was  a  tradition  that  he  had  been  a  stable-boy  somewhere, 
and  that  his  lameness,  which  necessitated  the  use  of  the 
crutch  from  which  he  gained  his  nickname,  arose  from 
injuries  inflicted  by  the  kick  of  a  horse. 

It  was  at  Doncaster,  perhaps,  that  old  "  Crutch  "  was 
seen  in  his  glory,  though  Newmarket  too  knew  him  well. 
In  the  long  room  of  the  Salutation,  or  sitting  at  the  horse- 
block, on  the  St  Leger  eve,  flinging  his  chaff  right  and  left, 
but  watching  the  market  with  the  eye  of  a  hawk,  "  Crutch  " 
Robinson  held  a  unique  place  among  the  sporting  characters 
of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  His  antipathy 
to  favourites  was  notorious.  The  hotter  the  favourite  the 
fiercer  was  "Crutch's"  antagonism.  If  anyone  said  that  a 
horse  was  either  dead  amiss  or  fit  to  run  for  a  man's  life, 
he  never  believed  it  ;  and  he  was  equally  sceptical  about 
the  alleged  wonderful  doings  of  great  cracks  in  private. 
"  Nar,  nar.  Thou  knawest  a  great  deal  about  it,  I  dar 
say,"   was   his   stereotyped    reply  when  he  was  told  of  a 


THE   FATHERS   OF   BOOKMAKING    19 

marvellous  trial ;  and  then  came  his  inevitable  proposal, 
"  I'll  bet  thee  five  pun  ;  I  may  as  well  have  my  ex- 
penses." 

A  scarcely  less  notable  "  bookie "  of  that  day  was  Jem 
Bland,  whose  origin,  like  that  of  Robinson,  was  "wrop 
in  mistry."  He  and  his  brother  Joe,  who  made  a  fortune 
of  ;^3 5,000  by  farming  the  turnpike  gates,  were,  I  believe, 
originally  post-boys,  and  then  rose  to  be  livery-stable 
keepers  in  Wardour  Street,  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may 
Jem  Bland  was  a  well-known  betting  man  as  early  as  the 
middle  of  the  second  decade  of  the  last  century. 

"  His  rough  expressions,"  says  the  "  Druid,"  such  as 
"  never  coomed  a-nigh,"  and  so  on,  as  well  as  his  long  nose 
and  white  flabby  cheeks,  made  him  a  man  of  mark  even 
before  he  got  enough,  by  laying  all  round,  to  set  up  a 
mansion  in  Piccadilly. 

Bland  was  the  noisiest  and  most  blatant  of  the  betting 
men  of  his  time.  His  strident  voice  could  be  heard  above 
any  din — he  was  the  Boanerges  of  the  ring.  He  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  though  his  second  wife  educated 
him  enough  to  sign  his  name  to  cheques  with  a  great 
sprawling  scrawl,  which  was  accepted  as  standing  for 
"j.  Bland."  Jem  could  never  make  a  note  of  a  bet;  but 
when  he  got  home  the  list  was  read  over  to  him,  and  not 
Cocker  himself  or  the  calculating  Charles  Babbage  could 
have  recounted  more  exactly  what  he  had  been  doing  at 
the  betting-post.  The  faithful  helpmeet  already  alluded 
to  taught  him  a  kind  of  hieroglyphic  shorthand,  in  which 
he  took  down  bets  in  his  later  days,  and  when  he  got  home 
he  and  his  wife  between  them  puzzled  out  the  cabalistic 
symbols  ;  for,  as  my  Yorkshire  friend  already  quoted  would 
have  put  it,  "  'e  could  soom  in  his  'ead." 

Some  of  Jem  Bland's  betting  exploits  have  become 
notorious.  For  example,  it  is  still  remembered  how  in  the 
long  upper  room  of  the  Salutation  at  Doncaster  (which 
was  the  betting  mart  until  1826),  on  the  eve  of  the  St 
Leger  of  1822,  he  delivered  his  portentous  offer  of  "a 
hundred  to  your  walking-stick  against  Theodore,"  and  how 
Mr  Wyville  accepted  the  wager.  As  everyone  knows,  the 
despised  Theodore,  against  whom  ^^500  to  £s  ^^^  been 


20  SPORTING   STORIES 

laid  the  previous  Saturday,  ridden  by  John  Jackson,  won 
the  St  Leger,  to  the  intense  surprise  of  his  owner,  Mr  Petre, 
who  had  paid  Mr  Wyville  a  bonus  to  take  his  betting-book 
off  his  hands. 

Another  odd  wager  of  Jemmy's,  but  a  more  successful 
one,  was  his  laying  Mr  Ferguson,  the  owner  of  Antonio, 
;{^io  even  that  he  couldn't  whistle  when  the  St  Leger 
horses  came  in.  Mr  Ferguson  accordingly  commenced 
when  they  were  at  a  distance,  and  right  shrill  was  the  note. 
"  Nay,"  said  the  crafty  layer,  "  thou  must  only  whistle  when 
I  tell  thee "  ;  and  as  they  swept  past,  with  Antonio  in 
front  and  Wrangler  at  his  girths,  the  signal  was  given,  but 
the  lucky  owner  could  only  make  a  blow  of  it. 

Perhaps  Jem  Bland's  greatest  coup  was  in  the  St  Leger 
of  1826,  when  he  landed  upwards  of  ^30,000  over  Lord 
Scarbrough's  Tarrare,  on  whom  George  Nelson  won  his 
first  and  only  Sellinger.  It  was  a  most  sensational  race. 
The  winner  started  at  25  to  i,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
his  noble  owner,  no  one  appeared  to  think  he  had  the  ghost 
of  a  chance.  Sultan,  the  favourite — "  Crocky's  white  nose," 
as  they  called  him — had  broken  down  on  the  Saturday 
before  the  race.  He  could  hardly  be  got  into  Mr  Mawe's 
stable  at  Belle  Vue,  and  some  who  stood  heaviest  on  him 
raced  off  in  chaises,  with  bribed  drivers,  to  reach  Sheffield 
and  Nottingham  before  the  news,  and  try  to  save  a  little 
of  their  money.  Of  course,  the  betting  ring  were  suspected 
of  having  nobbled  the  favourite,  and  Jem  Bland  had  to 
take  his  share  of  the  suspicion. 

Another  great  year  of  Jemmy's  was  that  of  the  famous 
Plenipotentiary  scandal.  "  Plenipo,"  as  he  was  called  for 
short,  had  won  the  Derby  of  1834  in  a  canter,  and  was  far 
away  the  best  horse  of  his  year.  He  was,  of  course,  made 
a  hot  favourite  for  the  Leger,  which  seemed  literally  at  his 
mercy.  He  started  at  5  to  4  on,  and  was  nowhere.  That 
the  horse  had  been  "  got  at "  no  one  could  doubt.  Two 
days  before  the  race  Plenipo  was  as  fit  as  hands  could 
make  him — "  light  and  bounding  as  Duvernay  or  Taglioni." 
At  the  starting-post  he  was  "gross  and  helpless  as  Jack 
Falstaff  or  Daniel  Lambert."  Mr  Batson,  the  owner,  was 
suspected  of  complicity  with  Jem  Bland  on  this  occasion, 


THE   FATHERS   OF   BOOKMAKING    21 

but  no  proof  was  ever  adduced  against  either,  and  the 
mystery  of  Plenipo's  Leger  is  still  unsolved. 

Two  years  later  even  the  astute  Jemmy  was  caught  at 
last,  and  it  is  said  that  he  dropped  ;!^8o,ooo  on  Shillelagh. 
The  Duke  of  Cleveland — the  Jesuit  of  the  Turf,  as  his  con- 
temporaries dubbed  him — was  more  than  a  match  even  for 
the  craftiest  "  legs,"  He  vowed  he  would  some  day  break 
the  ring,  and  he  very  nearly  did  it  that  year.  It  was  a 
solemn  warning  to  Jemmy  Bland,  and  he  did  not  trouble 
the  race-course  much  afterwards.  He  died  a  rich  man, 
though  nothing  like  as  wealthy  as  was  expected. 

An  even  greater  celebrity  of  the  betting  ring  than  either 
of  these  was  William  Crockford,  "  Old  Crocky,  the  Father 
of  Hell  and  Hazard,"  who  began  life  as  a  fishmonger  under 
the  shadow  of  Temple  Bar,  and  died  proprietor  of  Crock- 
ford's  Club  in  St  James's  Street,  the  most  magnificent 
gambling  palace  in  the  world.  It  is  probably  as  a  hell- 
keeper  that  Old  Crocky  is  now  best  remembered,  but  in 
his  day  he  was  as  celebrated  on  the  Turf  as  at  the  gaming- 
table. 

Of  the  ring  men,  Crockford  was  the  first  to  make  himself 
conspicuous,  a  head  and  shoulders  above  his  associates. 
Indeed,  he  may  be  taken  as  the  prototype  of  all  the  great 
Turf  speculators  since  his  day — Davis,  the  first  "  Leviathan," 
Steel,  Jackson,  Fairfield,  and  others  of  the  same  kidney. 
Many  an  envious  eye  followed  "  Old  Crocky  "  as  he  drove  on 
to  the  course  or  along  the  streets  in  his  gorgeous  chariot 
padded  with  down  and  silks,  with  the  powdered  flunkeys 
behind  ;  and  many  an  impecunious  gentleman,  as  he  looked 
at  Crockford's  magnificent  town  mansion  or  thought  of  the 
hell-keeper's  noble  country  seat  at  Newmarket,  felt  that 
there  must  be  something  wrong  in  a  world  which  could 
lavish  its  luxuries  upon  a  low-born  seller  of  fish  who  had 
simply  his  luck  to  commend  him. 

Here  is  a  glimpse  of  him  at  Tattersalls  sketched  by  a 
clever  hand  : — 

"  His  cheeks  appeared  whitened  and  flabby  through  con- 
stant night  work.  His  hands  were  entirely  without 
knuckles,  soft  as  raw  veal  and  as  white  as  paper,  whilst  his 
large  flexible  mouth  was  stuffed  with  '  dead  men's  bones,' 


22  SPORTING    STORIES 

his  teeth  being  all  false,  and  socketed  with  his  darling 
metal,  as  was  shown  when  he  indulged  in  a  hideous  laugh 
with  his  friend  Gully  over  some  lucky  coup.  On  settling 
day  'Old  Crocky'  sat  him  down  at  the  seat  of  custom, 
with  some  thousands  of  Bank  of  England  notes  pinned  to 
the  table  before  him,  having  the  heavy  figures  secured  by 
the  thumb,  the  fifties,  twenties,  and  tens,  under  his  three 
longer  '  prongs,'  and  a  sheaf  of  fivers  under  his  little  finger. 
'  Old  Crocky '  loved  to  coax  the  tyro  with  an  offer  of  a 
'  thousand  pounds '  to  some  of  the  youth's  pocket-money 
against  his  naming  the  winner  of  the  three  great  events, 
viz.  Derby,  Oaks,  and  Leger.  Many  a  thousand  he  picked 
up  in  this  way,  leaving  the  simple  taker  of  the  odds  to  gloat 
over  the  four  grand  figures  on  paper,  while  the  astute  layer 
invariably  pocketed  the  '  reality.' " 

Strange  to  say,  the  Turf,  which  was  the  foundation  of 
"  Old  Crocky's  "  fortunes,  was  also  the  cause  of  his  death. 
He  retired  from  the  hell-keeping  business  in  1840,  having 
pretty  well  cleaned  out  the  fashionable  world  of  its  ready 
money,  and  then  he  went  in  heavily  for  racing.  But  the 
"  legs  "  of  the  Turf  were  too  many  for  him,  and  they  fairly 
killed  him  over  the  Ratan  business.  In  the  famous  Running 
Rein  year  "  Old  Crock  "  owned  one  of  the  finest  race-horses 
ever  seen  (Ratan),  who  had  won  the  Criterion  Stakes  in  the 
previous  year  with  such  consummate  ease  that  he  was 
served  up  a  hot  favourite  for  the  Derby.  From  that 
moment  "  Crocky "  never  had  a  moment's  peace.  Dark 
hints  and  mysterious  warnings  reached  him  by  every  post. 
The  favourite  was  doomed,  he  was  told,  and  he  had  better 
throw  in  his  fortunes  with  those  who  had  laid  against  the 
horse.  But  the  old  man  would  not  swerve  from  his  purpose, 
and  fought  stubbornly  against  the  unwearied  attempts  to 
break  him  down.  His  health  gave  way  under  the  strain, 
but  he  still  hoped  to  circumvent  his  enemies  and  land  the 
greatest  coup  of  his  life. 

The  night  before  the  great  race  the  sentries  were  doubled 
outside  the  stable.  Sam  Rogers,  his  jockey,  was  locked  up 
alone  with  the  horse,  sleeping  in  the  adjoining  stall.  Every 
conceivable  precaution  was  taken,  and  there  seemed  no 
possibility  of  foul  play.     When  the  key  was  turned  on 


THE   FATHERS   OF   BOOKMAKING    23 

Ratan  he  was  in  glorious  health,  with  a  skin  like  satin  and 
muscles  of  steel.  When  he  showed  on  the  downs  the  next 
morning  his  coat  was  standing  "  like  quills  upon  the  fretful 
porcupine,"  his  eyes  were  dilated,  and  he  shivered  like  a 
man  with  the  ague.  The  villainous  confederacy  had  struck 
its  blow  in  the  night,  and  the  noble  horse  was  absolutely 
last  among  a  lot  whom  he  could  have  distanced  had  he 
been  well. 

The  news  was  brought  to  "Old  Crocky"  as  he  lay 
desperately  ill,  and  it  killed  him.  Two  days  later,  on  the 
24th  May,  just  after  the  Oaks  had  been  run,  the  rumour 
spread  upon  the  downs  that  "  Old  Crocky  "  was  dead.  He 
had  died  that  morning  at  his  mansion  in  Carlton  House 
Terrace,  within  a  week  of  his  seventieth  year. 

The  following  very  sensational  story  has  at  any  rate  the 
authority  of  the  late  Serjeant  Ballantine  to  support  it. 

Crockford  had  been  very  ill  for  some  time,  and  about  one 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  Epsom  Meeting  he  was  seized 
with  a  fit,  and  died  within  an  hour.  Of  course,  death 
cancels  all  bets,  and  the  utmost  consternation  reigned 
among  the  satellites  about  him  at  this  untoward  event,  by 
which  they  might  lose  thousands.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
In  the  grey  dawn  of  that  May  morning  some  half-dozen 
white-faced  men  took  counsel  together  and  came  to  the 
desperate  resolution  of  concealing  the  old  man's  demise  for 
twenty-four  hours  ;  no  one,  of  course,  being  allowed  to 
approach  the  chamber  of  death  save  those  in  the  secret. 
How  anxiously  they  waited  for  the  carrier  pigeons,  which 
in  those  pre-telegraph  days  conveyed  the  news  to  anxious 
backers !  They  came  at  last,  with  the  intelligence  that 
Running  Rein  had  won.  And  now,  that  no  suspicion 
might  attach  to  them,  they  clad  the  corpse  in  its  usual 
costume,  put  the  well-known  white  hat  upon  the  head,  and 
carrying  it  to  the  first-floor  front  room  facing  St  James's 
Street,  set  it  down  on  a  chair  at  the  open  window  so  that 
people  returning  from  Epsom  might  see  it,  and,  as  it  were, 
establish  the  alibi.  The  next  morning  the  news  went 
abroad  that  the  old  man  had  passed  away  in  the  night,  and 
it  was  only  some  time  afterwards  that  the  secret  leaked  out. 

But,  in  the  meantime,  a  curious  nemesis  fell  upon  the 


24  SPORTING   STORIES 

conspirators.  There  being  a  suspicion  of  foul  play,  the 
Derby  winner  became  the  subject  of  an  investigation  by 
the  Jockey  Club,  the  result  of  which  was  that  Running 
Rein  was  disqualified  as  being  a  four-year-old,  and  Orlando, 
the  second,  was  declared  the  winner,  by  which  reversal  of 
the  verdict  these  ghouls  lost  almost  as  many  thousands  as 
they  had  hoped  to  win. 

Despite  the  fact  that  he  had  squandered  something 
like  ;^70o,ooo  in  unprofitable  speculations,  Crockford  left 
property  to  the  value  of  more  than  half  a  million. 


CHAPTER  III 

SOME  LATTER-DAY  PENCILLERS 

I  COME  now  to  the  "  pencillers "  of  a  time  within  the 
recollection  of  many  living  veterans  of  sport.  And  I  give 
the  first  place  to  Harry  Hill,  who  has  recently  received  a 
high  tribute  to  his  memory  from  Sir  Henry  Hawkins 
(Baron  Brampton)  in  his  entertaining  Reminiscc7ices. 
The  famous  judge  had  a  great  regard  for  Harry  Hill,  to 
whom  he  refers  as  "  my  genial  friend,"  and  whom  he 
describes  as  "  deservedly  respected  by  all  who  had  the 
pleasure  of  his  acquaintance."  Harry  had  also  an  old  and 
much-respected  friend  in  Baron  Martin,  and  it  speaks 
well  for  his  good  qualities  that  two  eminent  judges  should 
have  been  proud  of  his  friendship. 

Harry  Hill  had  a  most  remarkable  and  indeed  romantic 
career.  From  "boots"  at  a  Manchester  hotel  he  rose  to 
the  highest  position  on  the  Turf  as  a  commissioner — a  man 
who  made  his  ten-thousand-pound  book  regularly  on  every 
big  event  during  the  year.  There  is  a  tradition  that  he 
made  his  first  appearance  on  the  race-course  in  the  not 
very  honourable  role  of  thimble-rigger,  and  that  he  was  so 
clever  with  the  pea  and  thimble  that  he  soon  amassed  a 
little  pile  which  enabled  him  to  start  as  a  bookmaker. 
But  his  own  story  of  his  first  slice  of  luck  was  the 
following. 

He  attended  Doncaster  to  see  the  Cup  run  for  one  year, 
and  without  much  trouble  got  rid  of  all  his  cash  except 
about  five  shillings,  which,  though  not  enough  to  pay  his 
tare  by  coach  back  to  Manchester,  was  still  enough  to 
take  him  there  by  more  humble  conveyance,  namely,  the 
waggon  and  walking.  While  on  "  Shank's  pony,"  by  which 
he  meant  to  go  as  far  as  Thurlstone,  he  missed  his  road, 

25 


26  SPORTING   STORIES 

and  on  stopping  at  a  small  cottage  to  inquire  his  way 
noticed  a  window  in  which  a  square  had  been  stopped  up 
with  the  manuscript  copy  of  an  old  ballad,  while  the  pane 
next  to  it  had  been  strengthened  by  pasting  on  it  a  i^20 
Bank  of  England  note. 

The  aged  couple  to  whom  the  cottage  belonged  did  not 
know  the  value  of  the  piece  of  paper — in  fact,  they  could 
neither  read  nor  write — and  so  Hill  had  little  difficulty  in 
buying  the  "  picture,"  found  months  before  on  the  high 
rpad,  for  half  a  crown.  Again  in  funds,  he,  like  Whittington, 
"  turned  back  on  his  footsteps,"  invested  part  of  his  windfall 
on  the  next  day's  events,  and  cleared  altogether  over 
eighty  pounds. 

To  his  credit  be  it  said,  he  repaid  the  old  folks  the 
twenty  pounds. 

Lord  George  Bentinck  gave  him  the  first  "  leg  up." 
Lord  George  took  a  liking  to  the  ex-boots,  and,  seeing 
that  he  possessed  exceptional  shrewdness,  entrusted  Hill 
with  his  commissions.  From  that  moment  Harry's  fortune 
was  made.  His  first  grand  coup  was  when  Bloomsbury 
won  the  Derby  in  the  historical  snow-storm  of  1839.  Harry 
made  a  large  sum  by  that  event,  and  through  a  dispute 
over  the  race  attracted  the  attention  of  Baron  Martin,  who 
afterwards  became  one  of  his  fastest  friends.  But  Hill, 
with  that  shrewd  common  sense  which  was  the  most 
salient  point  of  his  character,  always  stuck  to  Lord  George, 
and  executed  for  that  dashing  speculator  some  of  the 
largest  commissions  ever  entrusted  to  an  agent.  For 
instance,  when  Miss  Elis  won  the  Goodwood  Cup,  Lord 
George  Bentinck's  claim  was  ^17,000,  every  penny  of 
which  was  collected  by  Hill,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
landed  a  good  sum  for  himself.  At  Newmarket,  when 
given  the  Gaper  commission  for  the  Derby,  within  two 
hours  he  got  on  for  his  lordship  ^46,000,  and  this  sum 
before  many  days  were  over  he  increased  to  ;^  100,000. 
This  brought  Gaper  to  5  to  i,  and  so  anxious  was  Lord 
George  to  win  that  he  was  heard  to  say,  "  Egad  !  I'd  feed 
Gaper  on  gold  from  henceforth  if  that  would  ensure  his 
victory."  Gaper,  however,  came  in  fourth;  but  his  owner's 
losses  were  not  heavy,  as,  by  John  Scott's  persuasion,  he 


SOME   LATTER-DAY   PENCILLERS    27 

had  hedged  his  money,  and  backed  Cotherstone,  the 
winner. 

Harry  Hill  was  a  close  confederate  of  both  John  Gully 
and  Padwick,  and  the  clique  worked  many  a  notable  coup 
together.  He  would  lay,  while  Gully  would  back,  and  so 
they  played  beautifully  into  each  other's  hands.  It  was 
out  of  the  "  dead  uns  " — the  chief  source  of  profit  to  the 
operator  in  the  days  before  the  telegraph — that  the  book- 
maker got  most  of  his  money. 

His  heaviest  loss  was  on  West  Australian.  He  and  a 
clique  had  squared  Frank  Butler  to  lose  the  Leger  on  the 
famous  horse  ;  but  the  plot  was  discovered,  and  Colonel 
Anson  and  Mr.  Bowes  summoned  Frank  to  their  presence 
the  night  before  the  race,  and  told  him  what  would  happen 
if  he  did  not  win. 

He  was  wise  enough  to  take  the  hint,  and  he  gave  the 
tip  to  the  conspirators.  Hill  hedged  all  he  could,  but  that 
was  very  little,  and  he  dropped  some  ;^20,ooo.  In  his 
later  days  he  gambled  on  the  Stock  Exchange ;  but  the 
bulls  and  bears  gored  and  hugged  the  astute  bookmaker 
out  of  ;^40,ooo  in  one  year. 

Though  Hill  managed  to  accumulate  a  colossal  fortune, 
he  never  aped  the  swell.  He  never  desired  to  be  a  country 
gentleman  like  Gully ;  a  town  magnifico,  like  Padwick  or 
Swindell;  who,  however,  were  money-lenders  first  and 
bookmakers  afterwards.  He  was  rather  of  the  Jem  Bland 
order,  especially  in  his  love  for  low  company.  No  amount 
of  money  or  intercourse  with  good  class  men  could  wean 
him  from  the  tastes  of  his  early  days — the  inn-yard  and 
the  tap-room — and  he  was  never  so  much  at  home  as  when, 
attired  in  his  invariable  suit  of  ill-fitting,  rusty  black,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  made  for  his  grandfather,  he 
presided  at  a  table  surrounded  by  ostlers,  jockeys,  and  the 
nondescripts  of  the  Turf,  from  which  he  himself  had  sprung. 
Here  he  was  king.  Everybody  roared  at  his  queer  stories, 
which  were  quite  unfit  for  ears  other  than  those  of  the  men 
who  surrounded  him  ;  and  the  louder  they  roared  the  more 
drinks  he  stood.  Most  of  his  evenings,  especially  after  he 
had  retired  from  bookmaking,  were  spent  at  the  Coach 
and  Horses  in  Dover  Street,  Piccadilly. 


28  SPORTING   STORIES 

After  the  West  Australian  business,  the  truth  about 
which  was  known  everywhere,  Harry  Hill  did  not  do  much 
business  on  the  Turf,  and  lived  some  years  in  retirement.    ' 

He  died — a  wretched,  blind  old  man — in  1880,  and  left  no 
will.  The  only  property  he  was  known  to  be  possessed  of 
was  Ackworth  Park,  which  he  had  purchased  from  Gully. 
What  became  of  all  the  rest  of  his  wealth  remains  to  this 
day  a  mystery. 

Another  famous  bookmaker  of  the  highest  type  was 
"  Leviathan"  Davis.  Like  most  other  famous  betting  men, 
Davis  was  a  self-made  man.  He  began  life  as  a  carpenter 
at  Cubitt's,  the  well-known  contractors.  It  was  as  a 
backer  that  he  made  his  first  great  coup.  He  stood  Sir 
Tatton  Sykes  for  the  Two  Thousand  of  1846,  and  won  such 
a  pot  of  money  that  he  was  able  to  give  up  carpentering 
and  set  up  as  a  professional  betting  man.  As  Davis's 
customers  became  more  and  more  numerous,  he  was 
pestered  out  of  his  life  by  endless  questions  as  to  the 
prices  of  individual  horses  in  the  betting  market.  This 
interfered  with  the  booking  of  the  bets,  and  at  last  the 
happy  thought  suggested  itself  that  he  would  have  all  the 
prices  written  out  and  hung  up  where  everyone  could 
consult  them.  This  was  the  origin  of  the  famous  betting 
lists  which  were  in  vogue  in  London  until  the  Act  of  1853 
suppressed  them. 

The  first  of  these  lists  of  Davis's  was  hung  in  the  Durham 
Arms,  Serle  Street,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  so  enormous 
was  the  trade  which  it  brought  to  the  house  that  in  a  few 
years  the  landlady  retired  in  possession  of  a  very  handsome 
fortune.  The  second  list  was  posted  at  Barr's  in  Long 
Acre,  and  there  Davis  and  his  clerks  stood  behind  big 
bankers'  ledgers,  entering  the  bets  as  fast  as  their  pens 
could  go.  So  safe  was  Davis  by  this  time  that  one  of  his 
winning  tickets  was  considered  everywhere  as  negotiable 
as  a  Bank  of  England  note. 

His  first  heavy  hit  is  said  to  have  been  for  ^12,000  over 
The  Cur  for  the  Cesarewitch ;  but,  strange  to  say,  Davis  was 
singularly  unlucky  in  his  books  on  the  Derby  and  Oaks, 
though  on  the  first  named  he  sometimes  made  one  as  high 
as  ;^  100,000.     He  was  ^^"50,000  to  the  bad  over  The  Flying 


SOME    LATTER-DAY    PENCILLERS    29 

Dutchman,  and  he  had  three  terrible  years  running  in 
1849,  1850,  1851.  A  quarter  of  a  million  would  hardly 
have  covered  his  losses  on  the  Epsom  victories  of  Voltigeur, 
Daniel  O'Rourke,  and  Teddington.  Perhaps  the  worst 
blow  of  the  three  was  Sir  Joseph  Hawley's  win  ;  it  was,  as 
"  Argus "  said  at  the  time,  "  a  blow  between  wind  and 
water."  But  he  "  took  no  more  notice  of  it  than  he  was 
wont  to  do  of  his  washing  bill,  although  his  losses  were 
estimated  at  ;^ioo,ooo,  paying  them  with  as  much  indiffer- 
ence as  the  London  and  Westminster  Bank  would  have 
done."  Amongst  others  to  whom  he  had  lost  large  sums 
was  Mr  Charles  Greville,  whose  posthumous  Memoirs 
are  the  most  famous  chronique  scandaleuse  of  our  time ;  and 
Mr  Greville  was  somewhat  surprised,  and  perhaps  a  good 
deal  relieved,  to  receive  on  the  morning  of  the  Oaks  a 
cheque  for  ;^i 5,000  from  Mr  Davis.  This  judicious 
promptitude  at  once  put  an  end  to  all  suspense  on  the  part 
of  those  who  were  looking  forward  with  some  nervousness 
to  settling-day,  and  it  stamped  Davis  as  "a  very  mine 
of  Peru." 

But  he  had  his  revenge  in  the  autumn,  when  Mrs  Taft 
and  Truth  amply  recouped  him  for  his  summer  losses  ; 
the  two  of  them  probably  bringing  him  in  ;^50,ooo.  He 
was  supposed  to  have  entered  on  his  1852  campaign  with 
;{^i 30,000  at  the  London  and  Westminster  Bank,  the  heads 
of  which  establishment,  it  is  said,  "  would  rise  to  ac- 
commodate him  at  any  hour  of  the  night."  That  statement, 
however,  must  be  taken  with  a  grain  of  salt.  At  this  point 
of  his  career  Davis  fairly  deserved  his  title  of  "  Leviathan," 
for  he  conducted  his  business  on  a  scale  never  known 
before.  He  resembled,  in  fact.  Colonel  O'Kelly  in  his 
zenith,  who,  when  he  was  asked,  after  taking  a  heavy  bet, 
where  his  estates  lay,  responded,  "  By  the  powers,  I  hev 
the  map  o'  them  about  me,"  and  produced  a  perfect  roll 
of  bank-notes  ;  or  the  old  miser  near  Doncaster,  who  went 
to  a  great  land  sale  in  his  filthy  rags  with  a  hay-bag  round 
his  waist,  and  astonished  the  auctioneer,  who  wondered 
where  the  deposit  was  to  come  from,  by  holding  up  a 
i^ 1 00,000  bank-note  (one  of  the  few  ever  made),  and 
saying,  "  Here's  the  cock — I've  got  the  old  hen  at  home  ! " 


30  SPORTING   STORIES 

Henceforward  the  tide  of  ill-luck  always  flowed  steadily 
against  Davis  at  Epsom.  Daniel  O'Rourke  is  said  to  have 
cost  him  ;^30,ooo,  as  he  had  been  only  "got"  at  lOO  to  i. 
Catherine  Hayes  cost  him  about  the  same,  and  West 
Australian  ^^48,000,  of  which  ^^30,000  went  in  a  cheque  to 
Mr  Bowes. 

On  the  St  Leger  and  at  post  betting  the  "  Leviathan  " 
was  uniformly  lucky.  He  had  a  great  fancy  too  for 
backing  jockeys'  mounts,  and  there  his  good  fortune  was 
amazing.  Fordham,  "the  Kid,"  was  Davis's  particular 
favourite,  and  so  highly  did  he  think  of  both  George's  luck 
and  horsemanship  that  he  often  declined  to  lay  against  one 
of  his  mounts.  Like  a  good  many  other  bookmakers, 
Davis  was  no  great  judge  of  a  horse ;  but  he  had  a 
marvellously  keen  eye  for  detecting  when  they  were  in 
trouble,  and  would  keep  on  betting  till  they  were  close  to 
the  post,  and,  if  it  were  a  very  near  thing,  after  they  had 
passed  it. 

I  never  heard  of  his  nerve  failing  but  once,  and  that  was 
Bon  Mot's  Liverpool  Cup  year.  He  was  just  beginning  to 
fire  heavily  into  this  strange  3000  guinea  impostor,  when 
he  found  himself  compelled,  in  consequence  of  a  nervous 
headache,  to  close  his  book  and  sit  down  ;  and,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  he  won  ^^3000  instead  of  losing  nearly  twice 
that  amount. 

He  had  laid  heavily  against  Essedarius  for  the  Cup,  and 
the  anxiety  affected  his  mind  :  he  entirely  lost  his  head,  and 
became  so  alarmed  lest  he  should  be  unable  to  pay  that 
his  health  broke  down,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  race  he 
looked  the  mere  wreck  of  his  former  self.  The  victory  of 
the  little  Irish  outsider  Bon  Mot  had  the  effect  of  a 
restorative ;  but  Davis  knew  that  he  had  had  a  warning, 
and  that  the  ceaseless  anxieties  of  his  business  were 
beginning  to  tell  upon  him.  Although  he  had  an  iron 
constitution  and  the  lungs  of  a  Stentor — it  was  said  on  his 
retirement  that  he  left  his  voice  to  Steel — his  strength  was 
unequal  to  the  tremendous  strain  which  his  business  threw 
upon  him,  and  he  had  the  good  sense  to  lay  down  his 
pencil  for  ever  at  the  end  of  1857.  On  the  Friday  in  the 
Houghton  Meeting  of  that  year  he  retired  into  private  life. 


SOME   LATTER-DAY   PENCILLERS    31 

taking  with  him,  not  only  a  handsome  fortune,  but  the 
esteem  and  good  wishes  of  all  who  had  ever  had  any 
dealings  with  him. 

But  the  greatest  sportsman  and  "  doucest  lad  o'  them 
a',"  to  my  thinking,  was  John  Jackson. 

"  Jock  o'  Fairfield,"  as  he  was  called,  loved  a  fight  of  any 
kind.  Everything  in  the  shape  of  a  contest  had  an 
irresistible  fascination  for  him — a  foot-race,  a  horse-race,  a 
cock-fight,  a  bruising  match,  seemed  to  send  his  blood 
dancing  through  his  veins  with  excitement  and  delight. 
It  is,  of  course,  as  one  of  the  great  magnates  of  the  betting 
ring — a  very  Napoleon  among  "  pencillers  " — that  John 
Jackson  was  best  known  ;  but  he  was  something  far  more 
than  this.  He  was  a  keen  all-round  sportsman  ;  a  first-rate 
judge  of  a  race-horse,  a  greyhound,  a  shorthorn,  or  a  ram  ; 
as  acute  a  judge  of  cricket  as  of  jockeyship ;  as  much  at 
home  in  the  hunting-field  as  in  the  Subscription  Rooms; 
never  more  in  his  element  than  at  the  ring  side  cheering  on 
his  idol  Tom  Sayers  to  victory :  a  man,  take  him  for  all 
in  all,  who  had  had  but  one  equal  in  his  line — John  Gully. 

Jackson  was  born  in  the  year  1827,  at  Tunstall,  near 
Catterick,  where  his  nephew,  I  believe,  still  farms  the 
paternal  acres ;  for  the  father  was  a  small  farmer,  and  young 
John  was  bred  to  the  same  calling.  But  from  his  earliest 
days  nothing  could  keep  him  to  the  plough-tail  when  there 
was  a  race-meeting,  a  steeple-chase,  or  a  cricket-match 
anywhere  within  five-and-twenty  miles.  In  vain  his  father 
leathered  him  soundly.  It  had  not  the  slightest  effect 
on  John. 

Presently,  to  love  of  sport  for  its  own  sake  was  added 
the  true  English  craving  to  back  his  fancy.  He  must  bet, 
but,  young  as  he  was,  his  financial  instincts  were  strong  ; 
he  would  do  the  thing  methodically.  So  Master  John 
borrowed  five  pounds  from  a  friend,  a  saddler  in  Catterick, 
and  having  changed  it  into  half-crowns — that  coin  being 
the  standard  of  wagering  in  those  parts — John  set  off  to  a 
big  cricket  match  in  the  neighbourhood  and  made  his  first 
book.  It  speaks  well  for  his  astuteness  that  he  doubled 
his  fiver,  repaid  the  loan,  and  found  himself  with  an  un- 
hampered   capital    of    forty    half-crowns.      But,    Jupiter 


32  SPORTING   STORIES 

Tonans !  wasn't  his  father  in  a  rage  when  he  heard  of  it, 
and  didn't  he  just  come  down  upon  that  saddler,  and  waled 
him  with  the  buckle-end  of  one  of  his  own  two-inch  straps 
till  the  victim  was  black  and  blue,  for  which  the  old  man 
had  to  pay  ten  pounds  afterwards  to  square  the  matter  ! 
But  John  went  on  and  prospered.  He  had  a  genius  for 
figures,  in  fact,  and  would  have  made  a  splendid  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer. 

John  Jackson's  connection  with  the  Turf  dated  from 
Flying  Dutchman's  year.  The  Dutchman  was  a  gold- 
mine to  him,  and  at  the  close  of  1849  he  found  himself 
with  ;^ 1 0,000  to  his  credit  at  the  bank.  He  was  early 
entrusted  with  the  commissions  of  the  Middleham  and 
Richmond  trainers,  and  his  reputation  as  a  "  safe  man " 
was  speedily  established.  It  was  Jackson's  rule  always  to 
stand  on  good  horses,  and  in  the  long  run  it  paid  him. 
His  biggest  success  was  with  Ellington  for  the  Derby  of 
1856,  when  he  cleared  upwards  of  ;^40,000.  His  partiality 
for  Lord  Glasgow's  colours  was  a  hobby  for  which  he 
sometimes  had  to  pay  dearly ;  but  General  Peel's  victory 
in  the  Two  Thousand  made  up  for  many  disappointments, 
and  I  suppose  no  one  who  saw  him  on  the  Derby  Day  of 
1864  will  ever  forget  his  ecstasy  of  delight  when  he  saw 
Blair  Athol  and  General  Peel  coming  in  alone  at  the  finish 
of  the  great  race.  He  won  i^20,ooo  on  Blair  Athol,  but 
would  have  netted  double  that  amount  on  General  Peel. 
Then  he  purchased  the  estate  of  Fairfield  for  a  large  sum 
from  Mr  Henry  Thomson,  and  went  in  as  hotly  for  breeding 
as  for  betting. 

The  worst,  perhaps  the  only  serious,  "facer"  he  ever 
received  was  in  Lord  Lyon's  year.  Up  to  that  lucky 
season  Jackson  had  had  an  almost  uninterrupted  run  of 
luck,  and,  despite  his  lavish  expenditure,  was  worth  upwards 
of  i^70,ooo.  A  man  of  restless  energy  and  excitable 
temperament,  Jackson  was  never  happy  unless  he  was 
engaged  in  some  kind  of  a  contest — political  or  sporting, 
it  was  all  the  same  to  him.  With  the  Bedale  and  Sir 
Charles  Slingsby's  hounds  he  was  a  hard  rider,  and  one 
year  a  "pounding-match"  for  i^  1000  a  side  was  arranged 
between  him  and  Sir  Frederick  Johnstone — in  other  words, 


SOME   LATTER-DAY   PENCILLERS    33 

a  game  of  "  follow  my  leader "  on  horseback,  whichever 
failed  to  follow  to  lose  the  match.  It  would  have  been  a 
break-neck  race,  for  Jackson  had  six  hunters  up  at  Barton 
at  the  time ;  among  them  his  celebrated  Barney,  with 
whom  he  had  jumped  a  flight  of  double  posts  and  rails 
(i6  ft,  measured  from  the  inside)  with  the  Bedale.  Sir 
Frederick  had  just  leapt  a  mill-dam  in  the  Burton  country, 
so  the  probability  is  that  one  at  least  would  have  been 
brought  home  on  a  stretcher.  George  Payne  was  to  be 
umpire ;  but  somehow  the  match  fell  through,  to  the  great 
relief  of  the  friends  of  both  parties. 

Jackson  cared  far  more  for  sport  than  for  lucre.  When 
he  had  backed  Lord  Zetland's  Vedette  for  the  Two 
Thousand  of  1857,  the  son  of  Voltigeur  was  so  shaky  on 
the  pins  and  so  frequently  reported  lame  that  he  dared 
not  stand  the  money.  A  friend  laid  it  all  off  him,  and 
Jackson  stood  to  win  heavily  against  Vedette.  To  his 
surprise,  the  horse  won  in  a  canter ;  but  when  he  saw  the 
"  spots  "  ^  coming  in  ahead  of  everything,  the  big-hearted 
Yorkshireman  raised  a  mighty  shout  and  went  up  and 
patted  the  winner  as  proudly  as  if  he  had  won  a  hatful  of 
money  instead  of  being  some  thousands  to  the  bad. 

Of  Jackson's  generosity  no  man  can  speak  so  well  as 
Steel,  the  "  Sheffield  Leviathan,"  for  that  bookmaker  owed 
his  prosperity  to  Jock  o'  Fairfield.  The  two  met  at 
Doncaster.  Jackson  was  walking  beside  one  of  his  horses 
just  before  a  race  when  Steel  went  up  to  him  and  asked 
if  the  horse  would  win.  "  Yes,"  said  Jackson  ;  "  back  it." 
The  Sheffielder  did  so,  and  presented  his  benefactor  with 
a  handsome  case  of  razors  bearing  a  suitable  inscription. 
Jackson  was  so  pleased  with  this  "  delicate  attention  "  that 
he  advised  Steel  to  "  give  up  backing  and  take  to  laying,"  at 
the  same  time  generously  offering  him  ^500  to  start  with. 
Steel  accepted  the  offer,  and  from  that  moment  dates  the 
foundation  of  his  colossal  fortune.  To  the  day  of  Jackson's 
death  the  two  continued  fast  friends. 

That  event  took  place  all  too  early.  Jackson  had 
entered  the  sporting  world  with  the  constitution  of  a  horse, 
but  the  pace  he  went  soon  wore  out  his  natural  vigour.     I 

^  The  Marquis  of  Zetland's  colours  are  white,  red  spots  and  cap. 

3 


34  SPORTING   STORIES 

think  the  excitement  produced  by  Lord  Lyon's  victories 
really  gave  him  his  death-blow.  At  any  rate,  the  first 
symptoms  of  his  fatal  illness  showed  themselves  towards 
the  close  of  that  year.  On  the  Tuesday  before  the  York 
Meeting  of  1868  his  stud  of  twenty-four  yearlings  was  sold, 
and  he  appeared  at  the  sale  in  a  bath-chair,  but  the  change 
in  his  appearance  was  appalling.  But  something  of  his  old 
gaiety  flashed  out  when  he  found  that  his  yearlings  had 
fetched  ;^28,500,  which  was  four  thousand  more  than  he 
had  expected. 

Three  months  later  he  passed  quietly  away,  only  forty- 
one  years  of  age,  but  he  had  seen  more  life  in  those  two 
score  years  than  most  men  who  live  to  eighty. 

John  Jackson  won  and  spent  his  money  like  a  dashing 
sportsman ;  yet  he  died  rich,  for  after  all  his  debts  were 
paid  there  was  ^^40,000  left.  He  had  his  faults,  but  he  was 
sound  at  the  core ;  and  a  gallant  Englishman  lies  buried 
under  the  turf  that  covers  Jock  o'  Fairfield. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PARTNERS  AND  PLUNGERS 

The  first  betting  partnership  (or  confederacy,  as  it  was 
then  termed)  on  record  was  that  of  Charles  James  Fox 
and  Thomas,  Lord  Foley,  which  lasted  from  1772  to  1793, 
and  was  only  terminated  by  the  death  of  Lord  Foley, 
Everyone  knows  what  a  reckless  plunger  Fox  was  at  every 
kind  of  gambling.  Gibbon  tells  of  his  playing  at  hazard 
for  twenty-two  hours  at  a  sitting  and  losing  ;^5000  an 
hour ;  and  in  his  first  three  years  at  the  game  he  got 
through  iJ"  1 40,000. 

Indomitable  punter  that  he  was,  he  used  to  say  that  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  his  life,  after  winning,  was  losing.  He 
commenced  his  partnership  with  Lord  Foley  well,  for  in 
the  first  Spring  Meeting  of  1772  at  Newmarket  he  won 
;^io,ooo  by  laying  against  the  favourite,  who  was  beaten 
by  a  head.  Three  years  later  he  eclipsed  this  coup  by 
winning  ;^30,ooo  over  the  three  days'  racing  at  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Turf.  Even  the  cares  of  statesmanship 
,  could  not  keep  him  from  constantly  visiting  Newmarket, 
where  his  portly  frame  was  ever  to  be  seen  on  his  hack, 
tearing  wildly  past  the  judge's  chair,  close  up  with  the 
leading  horses,  whipping,  spurring,  and  blowing  as  if  he 
would  have  infused  his  whole  soul  into  the  horse  he  was 
backing ;  just  as  Lord  George  Bentinck  used  to  do,  until 
the  late  Mr  Clarke  defended  a  disputed  decision  by  the 
remark  that  he  "ought  by  rights  to  have  placed  a  tall 
gentleman  in  a  white  mackintosh  first." 

Charles  James  Fox  owned  some  good  horses  in  his  time, 
among  them  Pyrrhus,  with  whom  he  and  his  partner  won 
upwards  of  ;^  12,000.     But,  though  he  brought  off  some 

35 


36  SPORTING   STORIES 

good   coups,  he   plunged  so  recklessly  that  his  losses  far 
exceeded  his  gains  in  the  long  run. 

His  partner,  Lord  Foley,  however,  was  even  less 
fortunate.  He  commenced  his  racing  career  with  ;^ioo,ooo 
in  ready  money  and  a  clear  ;^i8,ooo  a  year.  When  he 
died,  in  1793,  he  was  absolutely  bankrupt. 

Like  Fox,  of  whom  Edmund  Burke  said  that  "  he  was  a 
man  made  to  be  loved,"  Lord  Foley  was  the  most  amiable 
and  charming  of  men,  and  he  left  behind  him  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  one  of  the  finest  sportsmen  that  the  Turf 
has  ever  seen.  Such  qualities,  however,  do  not  fit  their 
possessor  for  success  at  betting,  and  it  would  appear  that 
the  gentlemen  "  legs  "  of  that  day  were  too  many  for  poor 
Charles  Fox  and  his  partner:  it  was  a  battle  between 
pigeons  and  hawks,  and  the  birds  of  prey  had,  as  they 
always  have,  an  easy  victory. 

Another  tremendous  plunger  of  that  day  was  Richard, 
Earl  of  Barrymore.  He  began  his  career  on  the  Turf  when 
he  was  but  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  he  lasted  just  four 
seasons,  during  which  period  he  lost  no  less  than  ^100,000, 
although  he  was  reputed  the  cleverest  Turfite  of  his  day, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  Charles  James  Fox,  the  best 
handicapper.  But,  clever  though  he  was,  the  reckless 
young  nobleman  was  no  match  for  his  trainers  and  jockeys, 
who  cheated  him  right  and  left.  In  the  famous  race  for 
the  Oatland  Stakes  at  Ascot  in  1791,  over  which  upwards 
of  250,000  guineas  changed  hands,  his  horse,  Chanticleer, 
who  was  favourite  at  9  to  2,  would  certainly  have  won  but 
for  the  foul  play  of  his  jockey,  which  cost  him  ;^20,ooo ;  a 
large  slice  of  that  sum  going  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  (after- 
wards George  IV.),  whose  horse,  Baronet,  came  in  first. 

It  was  not  the  Turf  alone,  however,  that  ruined  this  incor- 
rigible plunger — indeed,  he  might  have  held  his  own  there 
had  he  given  more  attention  to  it ;  but  even  when  he  did 
pull  off  a  coup  he  squandered  at  hazard  and  faro  all  that 
he  had  won  at  racing.  His  many  wild  eccentricities,  his 
patronage  of  prize-fighters,  notably  the  celebrated  Hooper 
the  Tinman,  and  his  tragic  end  by  the  accidental  discharge 
of  his  fowling-piece,  have  all  been  told  elsewhere.  I  need 
only  add  that  he  was  in  his  twenty-fourth  year  when  he 


PARTNERS  AND  PLUNGERS    37 

met  with  his  sudden  death,  and  in  less  that  five  years  had 
flung  away  ;^300,ooo. 

But  in  those  days  it  was  singularly  easy  for  a  young 
man  to  run  through  his  property,  for  the  sums  risked  at 
betting  and  cards  were  extraordinarily  high.  It  was  no 
uncommon  thing  for  3000  guineas  to  be  staked  on  a  single 
card  at  faro,  and  ^70,000  was  more  than  once  lost  in  one 
evening's  play.  It  was  an  everyday  occurrence  for  the 
owner  of  a  horse  to  match  him  for  1000  guineas  after 
dinner,  and  back  him  for  five  or  ten  times  that  amount. 
Lord  Abingdon,  who  was  another  of  the  plunging  division 
of  that  day,  once  made  a  match  for  7000  guineas  to  come 
off  at  Newmarket,  and  was  certain  that  he  would  win,  but 
found  himself  so  short  of  funds  before  the  day  appointed 
for  the  final  deposit  that  he  was  forced  to  ask  the  notorious 
miser,  John  Elwes,  to  lend  it  to  him.  The  penurious 
master  of  Marcham,  who,  though  he  would  not  spend 
money,  had  no  objection  to  lending  at  usury,  advanced  the 
needful,  and  was  so  interested  in  the  match  that  he  rode 
from  his  seat  in  Suffolk  to  Newmarket  to  see  it.  He  was 
accompanied  by  a  sporting  parson,  who  was  so  keen  for 
the  sport  that  he  started  without  breakfast.  After  riding 
all  day,  the  clerical  gentleman  ventured  to  suggest  dinner, 
saying  that  the  sharp  air  of  Newmarket  had  given  him  a 
ravenous  appetite.  The  surly  miser,  although  Lord  Abing- 
don had  won,  and  he  was  therefore  sure  of  his  money, 
bade  the  hungry  parson  dine  as  he  did,  pulling  from  his 
greatcoat  pocket  a  piece  of  old,  crushed  pancake,  which 
he  had  brought  from  his  house  at  Marcham  two  months 
before,  and  declaring  that  *'  it  was  as  good  as  new." 

So  absorbing  was  the  passion  for  betting  in  that  day 
that  not  even  Elwes  could  resist  it,  though  it  is  only  due  to 
the  old  miser  to  say  that  his  ride  was  an  economical  one, 
for  he  dashed  through  all  the  turnpikes  without  paying. 

Certainly  the  young  plungers  of  that  period  went  the 
pace  with  a  vengeance.  Colonel  George  Hanger,  after- 
wards Baron  Coleraine  and  for  some  time  a  bosom  friend 
of  the  Regent's,  tells  us  that  his  dress  clothes  alone  for  one 
winter  cost  him  .^900,  and  adds  naively :  "  This  extrava- 
gance  is  likely  to  astonish  the  reader;    but  what,  in  my 


38  SPORTING   STORIES 

opinion,  should   strike    him    more   with  wonder  is  that  I 
absolutely  paid  the  tailor." 

Eighty  guineas  for  a  morning  suit  of  satin  and  i8o  for 
a  ballroom  suit  are  items  which  throw  into  the  shade  the 
extravagance  of  the  modern  jeunesse  doree,  always  ex- 
cepting the  late  Marquis  of  Anglesey.  And  when  one 
considers  that  the  young  gentleman  who  thus  attired 
himself  was  an  ensign  in  the  Guards,  with  four  shillings 
per  diem  as  pay,  whose  private  income  from  all  sources 
was  under  ;^iSOO  per  annum,  one  can  hardly  wonder  that 
he  made  desperate  efforts  to  supplement  so  inadequate  a 
revenue  by  reckless  betting. 

Naturally,  Colonel  Hanger  came  to  grief  in  the  end.  He 
was  for  some  time  an  inmate  of  the  King's  Bench  Prison, 
where,  "  being  determined  to  ascertain  how  cheap  a  gentle- 
man could  live  and  want  for  nothing  necessary  to  his 
maintenance — namely,  a  hearty  breakfast  and  dinner  every 
day,"  he  contrived  to  live  on  a  guinea  a  week. 

His  friend,  Richard  Tattersall  ("  Old  Tat "),  the  founder 
of  the  famous  house,  and  Colonel  M'Mahon  got  him  out  of 
the  Bench,  and  he  managed  to  shuffle  along  somehow  till 
death  claimed  him  in  1824. 

But  the  Prince  of  Plungers  was  without  question  Harry 
Mellish.  For  five  brief  years  Mellish  was  the  most  con- 
spicuous figure  in  the  circles  of  sport  and  fashion.  He 
commenced  his  racing  career  in  1801,  when  his  Welshman, 
by  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  with  that  wily  jockey  Billy  Peirce  in 
the  saddle,  won  for  him  a  match  of  50  guineas  at  Durham 
races.  From  that  time  forward  he  was  passionately 
attached  to  the  Turf,  and  in  matching  and  handicapping 
his  skill  was  extraordinary.  But  on  one  occasion  the 
Duke  of  Cleveland,  the  Jesuit  of  the  Turf,  as  he  was  called, 
was  one  too  many  for  the  accomplished  Mellish.  The 
Duke,  who  was  then  Lord  Darlington,  matched  his 
Pavilion,  a  horse  afterwards  purchased  by  the  Prince 
Regent,  against  Mellish's  Sancho  for  3000  guineas  a-side. 
The  two  horses  had  already  met  once  in  the  New  Claret 
Stakes  over  the  Lewes  course,  and  Pavilion  had  won. 
The  second  match  was  run  over  the  same  course  in  the 
July  of  1806.     Mellish  had    backed  Sancho   to   win    him 


PARTNERS   AND   PLUNGERS         39 

;^30,ooo,  and  when  he  drove  on  to  the  course  in  his  drag  with 
its  superb  team  of  browns  he  raised  his  white  hat  ironically 
to  his  friends  in  the  grand  stand  and  said,  "  If  Sancho's 
beat,  I  hope  some  of  you  will  take  me  as  coachman," 

It  was  a  splendid  race,  Sam  Chiffney  having  the  mount 
on  Pavilion,  and  Frank  Buckle  on  Mr  Mellish's  horse ;  but 
just  at  the  finish  Sancho's  leg  gave  way  when  he  looked 
all  over  a  winner,  and  Pavilion  shot  first  past  the  judge's 
box.  After  the  race  the  Prince  met  Mellish  on  the  course, 
and  said,  "  Mellish,  I'm  sorry  for  you."  "  No,  you're  not, 
your  Royal  Highness,  for  you've  won  your  money,"  replied 
the  owner  of  Sancho,  turning  on  his  heel  as  he  spoke.  It 
was  even  a  keener  cut  for  the  Prince  than  when  he  received 
the  round  robin  from  the  Jockey  Club,  in  consequence  of 
which  he  never  again  appeared  at  Newmarket.  But  such 
trifles  did  not  weigh  long  on  the  philosophic  mind  of 
Henry  Mellish,  and,  despite  his  rudeness  to  the  Regent,  he 
lunched  at  the  Star  with  the  Royal  party  as  calmly  as  if 
he  had  been  only  losing  threepenny  points  at  whist. 

At  that  time  Mr  Mellish  had  as  his  betting  confederate 
Lord  Foley,  the  son  of  Charles  James  Fox's  partner,  one 
of  the  most  miserably  lean  and  meagre  men  ever  seen, 
nicknamed  No.  ii,  from  the  resemblance  which  his  extra- 
ordinarily long,  thin  legs  bore  to  that  numeral. 

The  two  confederates  pulled  off  some  big  coups  together, 
and  on  the  whole  held  their  own  well  against  the  ring, 
though  perhaps  not  with  such  success  as  the  Honourable 
Richard  Vernon,  commonly  called  Dick  Vernon,  who,  if 
we  are  to  believe  his  biographer,  Thomas  Holcroft  (ex- 
jockey,  and  author  of  that  admired  comedy  The  Road  to 
Ruin),  was  "  so  adroit  in  hedging  his  bets  "  that  he  usually 
made  a  ;^  10,000  book,  by  which  "  he  lost  nothing,  nor  could 
he  in  any  case  have  lost  anything."  But  Mellish  lived  at 
such  a  rate  that  the  wealth  of  Rockefeller  could  not  have 
stood  the  strain.  He  had  close  upon  forty  horses  in 
training,  seventeen  carriage  horses,  a  dozen  hunters  in 
Leicestershire,  five  chargers  at  Brighton  (he  was  a  captain  in 
the  lOth  Hussars),  besides  hacks  innumerable,  and  a  whole 
brigade  of  retainers  in  his  pay,  whose  crimson  liveries  alone 
must  have  cost  him  a  pretty  penny.     Then  he  was  also  an 


40  SPORTING   STORIES 

enthusiastic  supporter  of  the  Prize  Ring — in  fact,  the  noble 
army  of  bruisers  looked  upon  him  as  their  treasurer.  Yet 
not  all  this  expenditure  would  have  ruined  Mellish,  if  he 
could  only  have  kept  aloof  from  "  vile,  insinuating  hazard." 
He  once  staked  ;^40,ooo  upon  a  single  throw,  and  lost. 
On  another  occasion  he  lost  ^^97,000  at  one  sitting  at 
Brooks'  Club,  and  was  leaving  the  place  when  he  met  the 
Duke  of  Sussex,  to  whom  he  exclaimed,  "  I've  lost  every- 
thing ;  I'm  ruined."  Thereupon  the  good-natured  Duke, 
clapping  him  on  the  back,  said,  "  Come  back ;  your  luck 
will  turn,  perhaps."  And  it  did  turn  with  a  vengeance,  for  he 
won  i^ioo,ooo  clean  off  the  reel  from  His  Royal  Highness. 
But  all  he  ever  got  in  discharge  of  the  debt  was  an  annuity 
of  ;^4000  a  year,  badly  paid.  The  last  straw  was  the 
St  Leger  of  1806,  over  which  the  betting  was  terrific.  The 
Sporting  Magazine,  two  months  before  the  race  was  run, 
stated  that  there  was  little  doubt  that  upwards  of  one 
million  guineas  had  already  been  laid.  Lord  Foley  and 
Mellish  were  amongst  those  who  were  most  heavily  hit  by 
the  victory  of  Fyldener.  The  latter,  indeed,  was  ruined 
by  the  blow.  In  the  following  December  his  stud  was  sold, 
whilst  he  himself  left  England  and  went  out  as  aide-de- 
camp to  Sir  Rowland  Ferguson  in  Spain,  where  the 
Peninsular  War  was  then  raging. 

But  before  he  left  he  had  the  honour  of  entertaining  the 
Prince  Regent  in  the  mansion  at  Blythe  which  he  had 
been  compelled  to  sell  to  Mr  Walker,  the  great  ironfounder 
of  Rotherham,  who  generously  lent  him  the  house  in  order 
that  he  might  play  the  host  to  his  distinguished  guest  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  his  reputation. 

During  the  few  days  in  which  Mellish  gave  his  farewell 
reception  to  Royalty,  he  and  the  Prince  used  to  sit  up  all 
night  engaged  in  the  fascinating  pursuit  of  hazard,  and  there 
is  still  preserved  in  Doncaster,  I  believe,  the  little  table  at 
which  the  master  of  Blythe  rattled  the  dice  for  the  last 
time  with  the  future  sovereign  of  England.  On  being 
appointed  aide-de-camp  to  Sir  Rowland  Ferguson,  Mellish 
received  the  brevet  rank  of  Colonel,  and  whilst  he  was 
attached  to  that  general's  staff  distinguished  himself  so 
conspicuously  by  his  gallantry  that  he  was  more  than  once 


PARTNERS  AND  PLUNGERS    41 

mentioned  in  the  dispatches  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
Unfortunately,  however,  Mellish  could  not  restrain  his 
passion  for  gambling,  a  vice  which  the  Duke  viewed  with 
the  greatest  abhorrence,  and  consequently  the  Colonel  was 
advised  to  throw  up  his  post  and  return  home. 

It  was  whilst  he  was  in  the  Peninsula  that  Mellish  made 
one  of  the  maddest  bets  in  the  annals  of  wagering.  He 
appeared  one  morning  on  a  wretched-looking  horse,  which 
made  him  the  subject  of  unlimited  chaff.  "  Why,  the  brute 
wouldn't  fetch  a  fiver,"  said  one  of  his  brother  officers. 
"  I'll  bet  you  a  couple  of  ponies  that  I  get  forty-five  pounds 
for  him,"  replied  Mellish. 

The  wager  was  promptly  taken  by  half  a  dozen  officers. 
Mellish  quietly  booked  all  the  bets,  and  then,  putting  spurs 
to  his  charger,  galloped  straight  for  the  enemy's  nearest 
picket.  As  soon  as  he  was  within  range  the  French  sharp- 
shooters began  to  blaze  at  him;  but,  regardless  of  the  bullets, 
Mellish  rode  on  till  his  horse  was  shot  under  him.  Then, 
waving  his  hand  to  the  Frenchmen,  he  walked  coolly  back 
to  the  British  lines. 

Now  the  Government  then  allowed  forty-five  pounds 
for  every  officer's  horse  killed  in  action.  So  Harry  Mellish 
won  the  wager,  for  which  he  had  deliberately  risked  his  life. 

Out  of  his  splendid  property,  only  one  small  farm  was 
left.  There  he  lived  quietly  on  his  wife's  income,  forswore 
betting  and  gambling,  and  devoted  his  attention  to 
scientific  farming  and  the  breeding  of  cattle  and  grey- 
hounds.    He  died  in  1817  ^^  the  early  age  of  37. 

The  greatest  "plunger"  since  Harry  Mellish's  day  was 
the  ill-fated  Marquis  of  Hastings,  who  threw  his  life  and 
fortune  away  in  fruitless  attempts  to  break  the  ring.  He 
had  the  sublimest  faith  in  his  own  judgment,  and  boasted 
that  he  could  make  a  certain  ^^30,000  a  year  out  of  betting. 
And  at  one  time  it  looked  as  if  the  boast  would  be  justified. 
During  five  seasons  (1863-7)  he  netted  in  stakes  alone 
£62,1  $S-  He  won  ;^73,ooo  over  Lecturer's  Cesarewitch. 
But  his  judgment  played  him  false  over  Hermit,  whom  he 
imagined  to  be  as  rank  an  impostor  as  Kangaroo,  the  horse 
that  Harry  Padwick  sold  to  him  for  ;^i 3,000,  and  which 
ended  its  career  in  a  cab.     The  Marquis's  losses  over  the 


42  SPORTING   STORIES 

sensational  Derby  of  1867  were  ;^  103,000,  and  he  had  to 
part  with  his  fine  Scottish  estate  of  Loudoun  to  meet  them. 
"  Hermit  fairly  broke  my  heart,"  he  confessed  to  a  friend  a 
few  days  before  his  death. 

But  that  fatal  year  saw  him  receive  another  terrific  facer 
when  Lady  Elizabeth  failed  to  win  the  Middle  Park  Plate, 
and  he  dropped  ;^ 50,000.  Before  a  twelvemonth  had 
passed,  he  was  a  defaulter  to  the  tune  of  ^40,000.  The 
rest  of  the  miserable  story,  the  scandals  attaching  to  Lady 
Elizabeth  and  the  earl,  I  pass  over  in  silence.  When  he 
was  last  seen  on  a  race-course  at  the  Newmarket  First 
October  1868,  the  bookmakers  would  not  trust  him  even 
to  the  extent  of  a  "  pony  "  ;  and  perhaps  they  were  not  to 
be  blamed,  for  when  they  had  been  disposed  to  trust  him 
generously  and  accept  his  offer  to  pay  his  big  creditors  7s. 
in  the  £  and  his  small  creditors  in  full,  he  had  failed  to 
keep  his  promise.  A  month  later  he  was  dead,  in  his 
twenty-seventh  year. 

Another  plunger  was  Ernest  Benzon,  commonly  known 
as  the  "Jubilee  Juggins,"  who  got  through  a  fortune  of 
;£^25o,ooo  in  two  years,  although  now  and  then  he  had  his 
good  times.  He  won,  I  believe,  ;^i6,ooo  over  Exmoor's 
victory  in  the  Northumberland  Plate ;  and  when  Ormonde 
beat  Minting  and  Bendigo  for  the  Hardcastle  Stakes  at 
Ascot,  in  1887,  he  pulled  off  ;^2O,O0O.  I  remember,  too, 
his  taking  a  bet  of  i^ioo  to  a  sovereign  about  Mr  John 
Wingrove  Smith's  Miss  Dollar  winning  the  Duke  of  York's 
Stakes  at  Kempton  Park  and  pulling  it  off.  But  a  man 
who  could  drop  thousands  at  baccarat  in  a  single  evening 
scarcely  needed  plunging  on  the  Turf  to  bring  him  to  ruin. 

The  number  of  men  who  have  at  one  time  or  another 
won  fortunes  on  the  Turf  and  then  let  their  winnings  slip 
from  them  is  extraordinary.  Ridsdale,  who,  with  Gully  as 
a  partner,  won  the  Derby  twice,  died  in  a  garret  at  New- 
market without  the  price  of  a  pint  of  ale  to  bless  himself 
with  ;  while  William  Chiffney,  the  owner  of  the  celebrated 
Priam,  whose  establishment  at  Newmarket  rivalled  Crock- 
ford's  in  its  magnificence,  died  nearly  as  badly  oflf  as 
Ridsdale. 

At  one  time  Mr  Brayley  was  "  tired  of  winning,"  but  in 


PARTNERS  AND  PLUNGERS    43 

his  case  too,  a  series  of  failures  combined  with  a  very  large 
stud  soon  took  the  gilt  off  the  gingerbread.  Mr  Bennet, 
again,  by  the  two  victories  of  Dalby  in  the  Chester  Cup 
(1865-6)  won  over  ;^8o,ooo;  yet  a  few  years  later  he  had 
not  as  many  farthings. 

Poor  Carew,  who  stood  to  win  ;^  180,000  on  Old  Robert, 
died  almost  penniless  in  Boulogne. 

Of  the  men  who  have  made  money  on  the  Turf  few  have 
been  more  successful  than  Steel,  who  "  never  owned  a  hair 
in  a  racehorse's  tail." 

Charles  Snewing,  who  won  the  Derby  with  Caractacus, 
remembering  that  the  whole  art  of  gambling  is  knowing 
when  to  leave  off,  after  his  great  coup  retired  from  the  ring 
to  a  farm  at  Watford,  surrounded  in  his  home  by  portraits 
of  his  famous  horse. 

A  notable  example  of  luck  on  the  Turf  is  the  American, 
Mr  G.  E.  Smith,  better  known,  perhaps,  as  "  Pittsburg 
Phil,"  who  recently  died  intestate  (February  1905),  and 
left  three  millions  of  dollars  which  he  had  won  from  the 
bookmakers  and — kept. 


CHAPTER  V 

TRAINERS  AND  JOCKEYS 

Old  John  Day,  the  famous  patriarch  of  Danebury,  was  the 
hero  of  more  good  stories  than  any  other  trainer,  past  or 
present.  He  was  generally  known  as  "  Honest  John  Day," 
but  at  any  rate  he  had  none  of  the  simplicity  which  is 
sometimes  erroneously  supposed  to  be  a  concomitant  of 
honesty.  On  the  contrary,  John  was  emphatically  a  smart 
man.  Nevertheless,  cute  as  he  was,  he  occasionally  made 
stupid  blunders,  and  on  one  occasion  was  fairly  beaten  at 
his  own  game — taken  in  and  done  for  in  the  most  delicious 
manner.  The  circumstances  were  as  follows : — The  Bath 
Summer  Meeting  was  a  favourite  fixture  with  old  John,  and 
he  was  always  to  be  seen  there  in  great  force.  In  the  year 
183 —  (it  is  not  necessary  to  particularise  the  date)  the  Bath 
races  were  patronised  by  the  veteran  trainer  as  usual,  and 
he  brought  a  fairish  string  of  horses  with  him  to  do  great 
things  and  astonish  the  "  Zummerzetshire  volks."  Among 
the  events  set  down  for  the  second  day  was  a  very  hand- 
some plate  given  by  the  Grafton  Club,  with  a  sweepstakes 
of  five  sovereigns  added  for  horses  of  all  denominations ; 
thoroughbreds  10  lbs.  extra;  gentlemen  riders.  John  Day 
had  a  horse  entered  for  this  race,  which  he  knew  to  be  so 
wretchedly  bad  that  he  took  the  liberty  of  laying  the  odds 
against  it  to  a  fifty-pound  note  at  15  to  i — as  safe  a 
bit  of  speculation  as  ever  the  old  man  had  indulged  in. 
This  wager  was  laid  on  the  evening  of  the  first  day  of 
the  races. 

There  was  in  those  days  in  Bath  a  hostelry  named  the 
Golden  Lion,  long  since  pulled  down,  I  believe,  which 
was  noted  as  a  snug  sporting  crib,  where  the  better 
class  of  sportsmen  were  in  the  habit   of  putting   up.     It 

44 


TRAINERS    AND   JOCKEYS  45 

was  a  small  house,  and  on  this  occasion  was  occupied 
entirely  by  some  dozen  or  so  of  gentlemen  riders  and  their 
friends.  Most  of  the  former  were  amateurs,  but  there  were 
two  or  three  of  the  "  gentleman  professional "  order  among 
them,  and  they  were  certainly,  without  exception,  a  downy 
lot  all  round.  On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  of  the 
races  these  gentlemen  breakfasted  as  usual  in  the  coffee- 
room  of  their  inn,  and,  there  being  no  strangers  present, 
they  proceeded  to  compare  their  respective  books  and  to 
discuss  how  they  stood  with  regard  to  the  different  events 
yet  to  come  off.  When  the  Grafton  Club  Plate,  in  which 
most  of  them  were  engaged  to  ride,  came  upon  the  carpet, 
John  Day's  15  to  i  cropped  up,  and  then  the  remarkable 
discovery  was  made  that  "  all  the  cream  "  depended  upon 
Honest  John's  horse  coming  in  first. 

The  Grafton  Club  Plate  was  the  third  item  on  the  card, 
and  a  field  of  twelve  faced  the  starter.  When  the  flag  fell, 
the  lot  went  off  to  a  good  start  at  a  great  pace,  but  the 
inevitable  tailing  process  soon  began,  and  John  Day  saw 
with  satisfaction  that  the  Danebury  screw  was  not  in  it. 
After  all  there  is  some  advantage  in  having  a  real  bad  'un 
in  your  stable  that  can  be  trusted  not  to  win  in  any 
company,  so  long  as  you  can  keep  the  fact  dark  and  turn 
an  honest  fifty-pound  note  out  of  the  brute.  So  probably 
thought  old  John  as  he  placidly  watched  the  race.  But  his 
complacency  was  not  to  last  long,  for  an  incident  happened 
which  startled  him  and  everybody  else.  The  girths  of  the 
leading  jockey's  saddle  gave  way,  and  over  he  went  a 
cropper  on  the  turf;  the  horse  swerved,  and  bolted  across 
the  course ;  the  three  next  horses  took  fright  and  followed 
suit,  and  thus  four  were  out  of  the  race  at  once  owing  to 
this  untimely  accident.  The  knocked-out  division  now 
had  the  race  to  themselves,  and,  to  judge  from  the 
slackening  pace,  they  were  all  so  pumped  that  it  would  be 
as  much  as  they  could  do  to  struggle  to  the  post.  One 
after  another  held  out  signals  of  distress  till  the  despised 
Danebury  screw  was  actually  leading  with  the  race 
apparently  at  his  mercy.  Old  John  had  pushed  his  hat 
to  the  back  of  his  head  in  his  excitement,  and  was  suddenly 
heard  to  exclaim  in  a  tone  of  consternation  : 


46  SPORTING   STORIES 

"  Beggar  my  limbs  !  "  (his  favourite  and  only  expletive). 
"  What's  the  meaning  of  this  blessed  rig  ?  " 

The  meaning  was  soon  plain  enough  when  the  "self- 
potted  "  Danebury  nag  cantered  in  alone,  the  easiest  of 
winners  by  half  a  dozen  lengths.  It  was  rich  to  see  the 
expression  on  John's  face  as  his  friends  crowded  round  him 
and  pressed  on  him  their  profuse  congratulations  on  his 
unexpected  success.  The  members  of  the  Grafton  Club 
who  had  generously  presented  the  plate  were  among  the 
heartiest  and  most  effusive  with  their  compliments  on  the 
Danebury  success  ;  but  poor  John  soon  found  to  his  cost 
that  these  expressions  of  congratulation  were  not  wholly 
disinterested,  for  the  winner  was  considered  bound  in 
honour  to  stand  ten  dozen  of  champagne  to  the  Club  and 
pay  the  expenses  of  the  police  retained  to  keep  order 
during  the  meeting !  But  what  was  this  to  the  winner  of 
a  handsome  piece  of  plate  worth  a  hundred  guineas,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  sweepstakes  and  the  money  which  so 
shrewd  a  card  as  John  must,  so  everyone  said,  have  netted 
in  bets  with  such  odds  laid  against  his  horse ! 

The  veteran  trainer,  however,  looked  like  Bret  Harte's 
"  Truthful  James  " — "  far,  far  from  gay" — as  the  consequence 
of  his  victory  began  gradually  to  dawn  upon  him. 
However,  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  "  Honest  John  "  had  to 
part  with  the  fifteen  fifties,  present  the  Club  with  ten  dozen 
of  champagne,  and  pay  the  police  expenses  of  the  meeting. 
The  sum  total  came  to  ;^850,  a  pretty  stiff  price  to  pay  for 
a  hundred-guinea  plate  and  a  purse  of  fifty  sovereigns  ! 
The  gentlemen-jocks  stood  in  about  sixty  pounds  apiece 
over  the  business,  and  it  would  probably  not  have  improved 
the  temper  of  the  Danebury  patriarch  could  he  have  heard 
the  facetious  manner  in  which  his  health  was  drunk  that 
evening  after  dinner  at  the  Golden  Lion. 

Long  before  this,  however,  when  "  Honest  John  "  was  a 
youngster,  he  and  his  brother  Sam,  who  thought  themselves 
as  sharp  a  pair  of  youths  as  any  to  be  found  in  England, 
met  more  than  their  match  among  the  yokels  whom  they 
despised.  Every  year,  in  the  month  of  August,  pony  races 
were  held  in  the  New  Forest,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
natives,  were   far  superior  to   the   Derby.     Most   of  the 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  47 

racers  were  the  ponies  which  ran  almost  wild  in  the  forest, 
and  were  mounted  by  country  lads,  who  learned  to  ride  as 
a  fish  learns  to  swim.  Sometimes  a  professional  jockey 
turned  up,  but  usually  one  of  the  shady  sort. 

To  one  of  these  meetings,  when  old  John  Day  was 
young  John,  he  and  his  brother  Sam  took  a  wonderful 
little  Danebury  pony,  thinking  that  with  their  knowledge 
and  science  they  would  carry  everything  before  them. 
Still,  they  knew  by  experience  that  every  country  lad  is 
neither  so  innocent  nor  so  stupid  as  he  looks,  and  there 
was  no  knowing  to  what  tricks  the  latter  might  resort. 
So,  when  they  had  put  their  pony  into  a  stable,  John 
prevailed  upon  Sam  to  hide  himself  in  a  crate  of  straw, 
in  order  that  he  might  keep  close  watch  upon  the 
animal, 

Sam's  position  was  not  only  uncomfortable  but  perilous  : 
it  was  a  tight  fit  to  begin  with,  and  the  truss  of  hay  which 
cautious  John  had  piled  over  him,  being  in  constant 
demand,  became  so  diminished  that  he  was  in  danger  of 
having  a  pitch-fork  stuck  into  him.  At  length,  so  cramped 
that  he  had  almost  lost  the  use  of  his  limbs,  Sam  was 
released  from  this  durance  vile,  and  the  brothers  with  the 
wonderful  pony  proceeded  to  the  course.  In  the  meantime, 
it  had  got  buzzed  who  they  were,  and  presently  a  loutish- 
looking  country  fellow,  who  wore  a  blue  smock  and  a 
butcher's  apron,  ragged  corduroys  and  high-lows,  and  who 
was  driving  a  rickety  old  cart,  accosted  them.  Taking 
off  his  battered  hat,  and  pulling  his  front  hair,  he  addressed 
John. 

"Ax  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  very  humble  tone ;  "but 
I  hope  you  won't  take  it  amiss  if  I  were  to  take  this  'ere 
old  pony  out  o'  the  cart  and  run  'im  against  yourn  ?  " 

"  And  who  are  you,  sir  ? "  demanded  John  Day,  with 
supercilious  condescension,  and  greatly  amused  at  the 
yokel's  audacity ;  "  put  down  your  ^lo  and  we'll  see 
about  it." 

Instead  of  looking  flabbergasted  and  making  off,  as  John 
fully  expected,  the  lout  produced  the  amount  from  the 
pocket  of  his  ragged  breeches  with  an  alacrity  that  took 
the  Danebury  youth  rather  aback,  and  suggested  the  un- 


48  SPORTING   STORIES 

comfortable  sensation  of  "  smelling  a  rat."  But  there  was 
no  retreating  now  ;  so,  not  feeling  quite  so  "  cock-a-hoop  " 
as  he  did  a  few  minutes  ago,  John  mounted  his  pony  and 
the  yokel  mounted  his,  with  his  butcher's  apron  twisted 
round  his  arm,  and  off  they  went ;  and  when  John  had 
been  beaten  by  twenty  yards,  he  learned  to  his  mortifica- 
tion that  his  pony  had  been  matched  against  Gulliver, 
one  of  the  most  famous  of  his  day,  and  that  his  rider, 
the  pretended  bumpkin,  was  a  first-class  jockey. 

Old  John  Day  was  a  strict  observer  of  the  Sabbath, 
never  exercising  his  horses  on  that  day,  and  he  used  to 
tell  a  story  in  support  of  his  principle.  One  Sunday 
morning  Mr  Padwick  came  down  with  a  party  to  see  his 
Derby  favourite,  Belgrade,  at  exercise.  It  would  make 
thousands  of  pounds  difference  to  him,  he  said,  if  his 
friends  saw  his  horse  out  and  his  beautiful  action  when 
extended,  instead  of  seeing  him  merely  in  the  stable. 

"  Belgrade  is  your  horse,"  replied  John,  "  and  so  are  the 
rest,  and  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  them  ;  and  ii 
you  take  them  out  Goater  may  go  with  them,  but  you 
must  excuse  me." 

Padwick  accepted  the  compromise,  and  Belgrade  and  a 
few  more  were  taken  to  the  Downs.  Galloping  with  an 
old  horse,  Belgrade  suddenly  became  frightened  at  nothing, 
or  at  least  at  nothing  that  could  be  seen.  Though  gener- 
ally of  a  most  docile  disposition,  he  now  grew  unmanage- 
able; he  dashed  off  at  a  furious  pace  down  a  steep  hill 
that  was  almost  a  precipice ;  the  boy  who  was  riding 
threw  himself  off  in  a  fright,  and  the  animal  pursued  his 
headlong  course.  In  vain  did  Goater  on  a  hack  and 
Padwick  in  his  carriage  give  chase :  Belgrade  soon  out- 
distanced them,  after  divesting  himself  of  saddle,  bridle, 
and  every  particle  of  clothing.  Nothing  more  was  seen 
or  heard  of  him  that  night ;  but  the  next  morning,  just  as 
John  was  about  to  set  out  to  scour  the  country,  a  man 
called  to  ask  if  a  horse  was  missing,  as  one  had  been 
caught  in  his  yard  the  previous  night,  and  was  now  at  the 
end  of  the  barn  tied  up  with  a  halter.  A  lad  was 
despatched  at  once;  the  horse  proved  to  be  the  missing 
Bel^rrade.     The  truant  was  brought  back  in  a  most  terrible 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  49 

plight,  and  after  that  ill-starred  Sunday  ride  he  was  never 
good  for  anything. 

Sir  Mark  Wood  was  the  hero  of  a  somewhat  similar 
anecdote.  Sir  Mark  was  a  man  with  a  singular  and 
particular  regard  for  the  proprieties  of  life,  both  spiritual 
and  temporal.  On  one  occasion  he  wanted  a  supply  of 
straw  for  his  horses,  and,  meeting  Mr  Witt,  a  gentleman 
who  lived  about  three  miles  from  his  residence  at  Hare 
Park,  he  asked  him  whether  he  would  oblige  him  with  a 
waggon-load  as  soon  as  possible.  Mr  Witt,  who  was 
always  anxious  to  oblige  gentlemen  connected  with  the 
Turf,  ordered  the  straw  to  be  loaded  forthwith,  and  sent 
early  on  the  following  morning  to  Hare  Park.  The  next 
day  happened  to  be  Good  Friday,  and  the  straw  arrived  at 
the  Park  about  eight  in  the  morning.  Sir  Mark  was  taking 
an  early  stroll,  and  seeing  the  waggon,  walked  up  to  the 
waggoner  and  asked  him  who  sent  the  straw.  On  being 
told,  he  exclaimed,  "  Good  Heaven !  is  your  master  a 
heathen?  Take  back  the  straw  at  once.  I'll  not  have 
godlessness  bringing  bad  luck  to  my  stables." 

Few  public  men  in  his  way  of  life  had  more  marked 
personal  peculiarities  than  John  Day.  It  was  impossible 
to  mistake  "  Honest  John  "  on  his  horse.  He  had  a  very 
noticeable  hollow  in  the  back,  good  width  of  shoulder,  and 
a  cast  of  countenance  there  was  no  mistaking.  He  was 
altogether  a  well-made  little  man  ;  but  he  was  scarcely 
a  great  horseman.  There  are  comparatively  few  brilliant 
bits  of  riding  associated  with  his  name;  but  he  was  a 
careful,  safe  man,  and  seldom  made  a  mistake.  It  was 
as  a  trainer  that  John  Day  made  his  mark.  There  was 
no  better  judge  of  a  young  one,  and  no  one  knew  better 
what  to  teach  him,  if  he  could  only  stay  the  course  of 
instruction.  But  his  preparation  was  proverbially  severe, 
and  not  many  could  stand  it. 

"  Well,  John,"  said  Isaac  Sadler  to  him  one  day,  as  he 
was  watching  three  of  his  two-year-olds  at  exercise,  "  well, 
John,  what  do  you  think  of  them  ?  "  "  John  beggared  his 
limbs,"  and  hinted  something  not  very  complimentary. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  answered  Isaac  ;  "  I  will  tell  you 
what  they  have  got,  John ;    they  have  got   twelve   sound 

4 


50  SPORTING   STORIES 

legs  amongst  them,  and  that's  more  than  you  can  count 
amongst  your  fifty  up  there  !  " 

On  another  occasion  John  himself  asked  a  friend's  opinion 
of  five  youngsters  of  Lord  George  Bentinck's  that  had  just 
come  up  from  Doncaster. 

"  Why,  they  won't  stand  your  training  a  fortnight," 
blurted  out  the  other. 

"  My  training  !     What  d'ye  mean  by  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  his  friend,  softening  down  a  bit,  "  I  think 
the  Danebury  hill  will  be  a  leetle  too  much  for  them." 

And  sure  enough,  in  a  fortnight  two  of  his  "  velocipedes  " 
had  thrown  out  curbs !  But  find  a  horse  to  face  "  the 
Danebury  hill,"  and  he  was  sure  to  come  a  "  cracker." 
Despite  the  fact  that  a  pot  now  and  then  boiled  over, 
people  knew  this,  and  treated  the  stable  with  respect. 

Few  horses  ever  created  such  a  sensation  as  Virago  did 
when  she  was  brought  to  Epsom  to  run  for  the  City  and 
Suburban  and  Metropolitan  Stakes  of  1854,  both  races 
being  run  on  the  same  afternoon.  For  the  former  race 
young  John  Day  of  Danebury  had  a  great  favourite  in 
Marc  Antony ;  but  his  father  told  him  he  had  a  better 
mare  than  even  Crucifix,  and  nothing  had  a  chance  beside 
her.  Virago  won,  it  will  be  recollected,  in  a  canter,  and 
"  Honest  John "  repeated  that  the  Metropolitan  was  an 
equal  certainty.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr  Greville  told  him 
he  had  tried  Muscovite,  so  that  no  three-year-old  alive 
could  beat  him.  John  would  not  listen  to  a  word  he  said, 
but  simply  met  all  his  arguments  by  "  She  is  worth  your 
five  hundred  pounds,  sir " ;  and  away  went  Mr  Greville, 
groaning  at  the  thought  of  having  to  meet  such  an  animal. 
After  Virago  had  won  as  easily  as  before  the  veteran  was 
in  great  form,  and  Napoleon  was  never  prouder  of  the  Old 
Guard  than  he  was  of  his  chestnut. 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  get  her  in  so  well,  John  ? " 
inquired  Lord  Derby,  with  a  sly  twinkle  in  his  eye — for  no 
one  relished  a  conversation  with  old  John  Day  more  than 
his  Lordship. 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  I  did  it,  my  lord,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  I 
ran  her  '  big '  at  Shrewsbury,  and  told  Wells  to  pull  her  up 
directly  she  was  beaten.     Capital,  wasn't  it  ?  "     And  away 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  51 

went  Lord  Derby,  highly  amused  with  the  explanation, 
though  he  was  too  prudent  to  offer  any  comment  upon  it. 

The  glory  of  Middle  Park  stud-farm  is  now  ancient  Turf 
history;  yet  the  remembrance  of  such  a  splendid  career  as 
that  of  Mr  Blenkiron  should  not  be  allowed  to  fade  from 
the  memories  of  sportsmen.  It  was  he  who  really  made 
stud  history,  and  yet  he  began  in  a  very  small  way.  Glance 
by  Venison  out  of  Eyebrow  by  Whisker,  one  of  Lord 
George  Bentinck's  rearing,  was  the  first  brood-mare  Mr 
Blenkiron  owned.  He  bought  her,  with  two  defeats  on  her 
head,  from  Mr  Sait,  the  steeplechase  rider,  and  sent  her 
to  John  Osborne's  to  be  trained.  She  ran  three  seasons 
without  scoring  a  win,  and  after  the  sixth  time  of  asking 
she  retired  from  the  Turf  a  maiden,  in  1849.  Mr  Blenkiron 
determined  to  breed  from  her ;  and  sent  the  filly  at  once  to 
Beverley.  As  the  time  of  foaling  drew  nigh,  a  man  was 
hired  to  sit  up  with  her ;  and  when  a  youthful  courier 
arrived  one  Sunday  afternoon  with  the  news  that  she  had 
foaled,  Mr  Blenkiron,  who  was  entertaining  some  friends, 
deserted  his  wine,  and  ran  the  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  shed 
at  a  wonderful  pace,  finishing  a  dozen  yards  in  front  of  his 
party,  who  arrived  in  straggling  order  quite  blown ;  and  it 
was  jocularly  said  by  their  host,  "  It  would  be  quite  a 
miracle  if  they  did  not  all  become  roarers."  On  reaching 
the  shed  they  found  the  foal  on  his  legs  ;  and  when,  in 
course  of  time,  the  little  brown  colt  was  weaned,  he  was 
brought  to  the  five-acre  field  at  the  bottom  of  his  owner's 
garden,  and  made  quite  a  pet  of 

When  quite  a  baby  colt,  Mr  Blenkiron  would  lead  it 
about  for  hours  in  the  paddock,  and  if  city  business  pressed 
he  did  not  care  how  early  he  rose  to  fulfil  the  cherished 
task.  Of  course,  the  yearling  was  matched,  and,  with 
Alfred  Day  up,  was  only  beaten  by  a  head  by  Mr  Clarke's 
"  Mr  Sikes,"  for  ^^"200,  h.  ft.,  at  the  Newmarket  July 
Meeting.  The  Prince  of  Wales's  Stakes  at  York  was  his 
next  engagement,  for  which  he  was  trained  by  old  John 
Gill  of  Richmond,  who  tried  him  with  Guicowar ;  but  all 
John  would  say  about  the  colt  was,  "  Ye  can  tell  for  your- 
self when  ye  see  Guicowar  run,  they're  yen  and  same." 
Guicowar  ran  badly,  and  old  John  thought  the  colt  would 


52  SPORTING   STORIES 

never  be  started  ;  but  started  he  was,  although  the  stable 
lad  told  Mr  Blenkiron,  "  He  canna  rin,  sir,  for  I've  baith 
fed  and  watered  him  myself."  Yet  run  he  did,  and  came 
in  second,  and  next  day  saved  the  stakes  by  coming  in 
third  for  the  Gimcrack  event.  This  all  helped  to  make 
the  owner  very  sweet  upon  the  colt ;  so  much  so,  that 
when  John  Gill  was  asked  his  price  the  reply  was,  "  Noa, 
I'se  sure  a'  Lunnon  wadn't  buy  him. " 

Next  spring,  however,  he  unfortunately  got  loose  to  a 
mare,  and  from  that  day  would  never  pass  one  afterwards 
in  a  trace,  so  he  was  swapped  away  for  three  mares  to 
Jemmy  Messer  of  No-Man's-Land — a  spot,  by  the  way, 
where  many  a  prize-fight  came  off  in  the  palmy  days  of 
the  P.R. — and  that  was  the  ignominious  end  of  the  wonder- 
ful first  foal  of  Glance. 

Among  the  Yorkshire  trainers  of  the  early  Victorian  era 
there  was  none  more  amusing  than  "  Billy  "  Pierse.  Billy 
owed  the  greater  part  of  his  prosperity  to  his  wife.  "If 
ever  I  saved  a  shilling,  my  wife  saved  sixpence  of  it,"  he 
used  to  say.  Mrs  Pierse  took  an  active  part  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  stable,  and  it  was  said  she  had  the  quicker  eye 
of  the  two  for  discovering  anything  wrong  in  a  horse. 
With  a  walking-stick  in  her  hand  and  an  old  crunch  bonnet 
on  her  head,  she  would  stand  at  the  door  of  the  house  every 
morning  and  watch  each  horse  as  it  left  the  yard ;  and  if 
she  called  out,  "  I  say,  turn  him  back,  mun ;  that  horse  is 
lame,"  there  was  no  mistake  about  it. 

Billy's  only  interference  in  household  matters  was  to 
insist  upon  a  roast  goose  every  Sunday  during  the  season, 
and  to  buy  twice  as  much  meat  as  was  required,  the 
overplus  of  which  his  good-hearted  helpmate  gave  to 
the  poor. 

In  his  earlier  days  Billy  was  in  the  front  rank  of  jockeys, 
and  renowned  as  a  powerful  finisher  and  fine  judge  of  pace. 
He  hated  quarrelling,  and  was  a  wonderful  peacemaker. 
Mr  Tomline,  the  judge  at  Richmond  (Yorks),  used  to  tell 
how  cleverly  Pierse  stopped  a  quarrel  between  two  jockeys 
who  had  ridden  a  punishing  finish  and  got  to  high  words 
about  the  issue.  Trotting  back  past  the  chair  to  weigh-in, 
he  called  out,  "  How  far  did  I  win,  Mr  Tomline?" 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  53 

"  You,  Pierse  ?  Why,  you  were  beat  three  lengths,"  was 
the  answer. 

"  Oh,"  said  Billy,  with  a  polite  bow,  "  thank  ye,  sir ;  that 
alters  the  case  "  ;  and  his  manner  was  so  comical  that  he 
set  both  disputants  laughing,  and  so  ended  the  row. 

His  whole  reading  was  confined  to  the  Bible  and  Adam 
Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations.  He  went  through  each 
about  thirty  times,  and  in  the  winter  would  sit  for  hours 
together  poring  over  the  abstruse  subject  of  political 
economy. 

Billy  certainly  knew  how  to  make  a  bargain.  When  he 
wanted  new  clothes  for  his  stable-boys  he  would  go  up  to 
Manchester,  give  the  cord  merchants  a  few  tips,  and  come 
back  with  enough  corduroy  to  last  the  stables  a  year.  He 
once  dined  and  slept  at  the  house  of  one  of  these  merchants. 
After  he  had  gone  to  bed,  the  host  heard  sounds  of  distress 
proceeding  from  his  room.  On  going  thither  he  found 
Billy  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  arrayed  in  a  long 
nightgown,  and  evidently  in  great  distress. 

"Oh,  sir,"  he  said,  "my  wife's  forgot  to  put  me  in  a 
nightcap,  and  I  can't  sleep  without  one."  This  want  was 
soon  supplied. 

"  These  are  very  high  beds  of  yours,  sir,"  observed  Billy ; 
"  I  can't  get  in ;  do  give  me  a  leg  up."  This  was  done 
with  as  much  solemnity  as  if  the  St  Leger  bell  had  been 
ringing. 

After  he  had  been  tucked  in,  he  said,  in  a  very  con- 
fidential tone,  "  Sir,  you've  been  very  good  to  me  to-day, 
and  I  wish  to  make  you  some  return,  mind  " — and  placing 
his  fingers  against  his  nose — "  it  goes  no  farther,  but 
Borodino  is  a  racehorse — that's  the  straight  tip.  Good- 
night," and  the  next  moment  his  head  was  buried  in  the 
pillow. 

Here  is  another  story  of  Billy  Pierse.  Many  years  ago 
a  distinguished  military  officer  was  one  of  the  stewards  oi 
the  Doncaster  races,  and  during  his  term  of  office  had  to 
decide  a  dispute  against  Billy  Pierse.  "  T'owd  'un,"  as 
Billy  was  generally  called,  would  never  admit  himself  in 
the  wrong,  and  he  was  very  indignant  at  the  judgment. 

"  Why,  he  don't  know  the  difference  between  a  horse-race 


54  SPORTING    STORIES 

and  a  charge  o'  cavalry,"  he  growled  to  a  friend  ;  "  and  as 
to  a  jostle,  he  don't  know  the  meaning  o'  the  word.  Wasn't 
his  father  or  grandfather  hanged  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  replied  the  other ;  "  but  his  uncle 
was  shot." 

"  Ah  !  I  thowt  it  was  soomat  o'  th'  sowrt,  an'  its  mooch  of 
a  moochness  'tween  hangin'  an'  shootin'.  But  I  tell  'ee 
he'll  niver  do  for  th'  Turf:  he  may  be  well  enough  for  a 
general  to  lead  on  soldier  chaps,  but  he'll  never  do  for  the 
Turf ;  he  wants  it  here, "  pointing  to  his  forehead,  "  he  ain't 
got  the  brains  for  t/iai." 

Among  the  jockeys  of  the  old  school  few  stood  so  high 
in  estimation,  whether  for  professional  or  social  qualities, 
as  Bill  Scott.  In  his  palmy  days,  when  he  had  won  more 
St  Legers  than  any  other  of  his  craft,  besides  several  Derbys, 
Oaks,  and  a  host  of  other  races,  he  had  a  house  flanking 
the  entrance  to  Knavesmere,  where  he  dispensed  hospitality 
right  heartily,  and  at  race  times  lords,  legs,  cits,  country 
friends,  and  brother  trainers  and  jockeys  were  seen  alike  at 
his  well-spread  board.  But  it  was  over  a  pipe  and  a  glass 
of  grog  among  his  friends  that  Bill  was  seen  at  his  best. 
A  certain  Captain  Frank  Taylor  of  the  neighbourhood,  a 
small  owner  of  racehorses,  which  Scott  trained,  was  fre- 
quently to  be  found  with  his  feet  under  Bill's  mahogany, 
and  the  trainer  was  as  often  at  the  Captain's  quarters. 
The  two  together  were  a  fund  of  amusement  to  their 
intimates.  In  the  early  part  of  the  evening  Taylor  would 
address  the  jockey  in  a  bland,  half-patronising  manner  as 
"  William."  But  as  the  strong  waters  began  to  flow,  th^e 
little  round-shouldered  jock  in  the  corner,  with  his  feet  on 
the  hob,  and  the  gouty  old  dragoon  officer  packed  in  a 
huge  arm-chair,  became  wonderfully  familiar.  William 
was  shortened  into  Billy,  and  the  Captain  curtailed  into 
"  Frank."  With  each  succeeding  glass  the  familiarity 
increased,  until  Billy  would  shout : 

"  I  say,  Frank,  you  hairy  old  devil — do  you  hear !  I'll 
run  a  grey  hunter  I've  got  in  York  for  a  thousand  against 
that  damned  impostor  Anderby  of  yours.  Damme  !  Til 
lay  you  fifteen  hundred  to  ten,  and  stake  the  money  now." 

At   this   sally   from    the    chimney-corner    the    Captain 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  55 

retired  back  on  the  "William,"  and  stood  stiffly  on  his 
dignity  ;  but  again  lapsing  into  the  familiar  "  Billy,"  would 
soften  the  crusty  old  jockey  by  saying  he  should  always 
ride  for  him,  not  against  him,  whereupon  Billy,  with  a  sly, 
triumphant  chuckle,  would  charge  his  pipe  afresh  and 
replenish  his  beaker. 

Bill  was  very  fond  of  using  long  words,  or,  rather,  long 
phrases,  of  the  meaning  of  which  he  had  not  the  least  con- 
ception, having  learned  them  like  a  parrot ;  and  these 
phrases,  coupled  with  his  singular  accent,  based  upon  the 
high-pitched  Suffolk  crossed  by  the  vowels  of  the  East 
Riding,  had  a  most  comical  effect.  Though  a  man  of  no 
education  he  was  ambitious,  as  such  men  are,  that  his  son 
should  have  "  learning,"  and  one  day,  over  a  glass  of  grog, 
requested  a  sporting  friend  who  was  a  bit  of  a  school- 
master to  "tout  "  young  Bill  in  Latin. 

"  Don't  make  too  strong  a  running  of  it,"  he  said,  "  and 
take  all  out  of  him  first  trial.  Remember,  he's  only  a 
young  'un ;  but  give  him  a  fair  taste.  Give  him  a  mile 
and  a  half  at  four  stone  or  fifty  pounds — that's  about  your 
cut.  And  now,  William,"  addressing  his  son,  "  try  to  hang 
on  to  the  old  'un  here  without  attempting  to  pass  'im, 
and  if  you  can  live  with  him  till  you  see  White  Willy" 
— so  he  always  termed  the  distance  post — "  I  think  as 
your  father,  a  man  without  the  advantages  of  a  classical 
education,  though  up  to  a  dodge  or  two,  may  have  reason 
to  be  sweet  upon  your  performance,  and  that  in  a  year  or 
two  you'll  be  able  to  beat  the  schoolmaster  at  even 
weights." 

Bill  once  suspected  that  his  son,  when  a  mere  boy,  had 
been  led  into  drinking  spirits  by  one  of  his  grooms  named 
Bob  Britton,  and,  to  be  quite  certain  of  the  fact,  told  him 
to  come  and  kiss  his  dad  before  he  went  to  bed.  The  "  old 
un  "  instantly  "  winded  the  lush,"  as  he  expressed  it,  and 
having  dismissed  the  boy  with  a  kind  but  droll  homily,  he 
armed  himself  with  a  good  stout  whip  and  went  off  to  the 
stables  in  search  of  Bob,  the  tempter.  He  did  not  waste 
much  time  in  talking,  but  towelled  the  unfortunate  youth 
for  a  good  ten  minutes  until  he  hallooed  like  a  pack  of 
hounds  in  full  cry.     "  I  never  did  lay  into  anything  with 


56  SPORTING   STORIES 

such  a  hearty  good-will,"  Bill  said,  "  in  all  my  life  as  into 
that  chap's  bones." 

A  well-known  jockey  in  Bill  Scott's  employ  was  Harry 
Edwards — "  Ed'ards,"  he  was  usually  called — who,  though 
he  had  but  one  eye,  was  among  the  finest  riders  of  his 
time.  But  he  could  not  go  straight,  even  when  it  was  to 
his  advantage  to  do  so,  and  he  soon  had  to  leave  Scott's 
employ  for  selling  him  in  the  most  audacious  manner  on 
Spirus  at  Wolverhampton.  He  would  not  try  to  get  his 
horse  through,  as  Bill,  who  was  riding  in  the  race,  saw  from 
the  rear,  although  it  was  heavily  backed  and  intended  to 
win.  But  Edwards  cared  nothing  for  that,  and  threw 
over  the  lot,  tempted  by  some  paltry  sum  from  one  of  the 
many  atrocious  legs  and  ruffians  with  whom  he  was  in 
league.  He  would  rather  make  a  pony  "  on  the  cross " 
than  get  a  hundred  on  the  square ;  so  thoroughly  did  he 
enjoy  doing  a  bit  on  the  quiet  on  his  own  account,  and 
"  putting  the  double  edge  on  the  swells,"  as  he  called  it. 
Latterly,  Edwards  became  so  notorious  that  no  one  would 
give  him  a  mount,  so  he  shook  the  dust  of  his  native  land 
from  off  his  feet,  went  over  to  France,  and  took  up  his 
abode  at  Nantes,  where  he  trained,  rode,  and  "  nobbled  " 
for  the  mounseers  in  a  small  way,  until  death  "  nobbled  " 
him. 

As  a  rider,  the  beau-ideal  of  an  out-and-out  jockey,  none 
surpassed  Samuel  Chiffney,  the  younger,  when  in  his  prime  : 
his  elegance  of  seat,  perfection  of  hand,  judgment  of  pace, 
and  power  in  the  saddle  were  never  excelled  by  any  of  his 
contemporaries.  He  was  at  the  same  time  the  "  Artful 
Dodger  "  of  the  race-course;  invariably  the  last  to  get  off, 
he  would  presently  be  seen  creeping  up  to  the  other  horses 
— or  was  it  that  they  with  the  pace  telling  on  them,  were 
coming  back  to  him  ? — till  he  would  overhaul  them,  and 
then,  leaning  well  back  on  his  seat,  he  would  let  his  horse 
out  on  the  post,  and,  with  one  cut  from  his  whip,  would 
come  with  the  rush  of  a  tornado,  frequently  stealing  a  race 
from  animals  infinitely  superior  to  his  own  mount,  by  his 
consummate  calculations  and  unequalled  impetuosity. 
When  for  the  Claret  Stakes,  at  the  Craven  Meeting  in  1829, 
he  rode  his  own  horse  Zingarec,  and  snatched  the  race  from 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  57 

two  such  men  as  Jem  Robinson  and  Frank  Buckle,  his 
riding  was  the  wonder  of  all  who  saw  it. 

Yet  Chiffney  lacked  the  courage  of  Bill  Scott  :  he  was 
rather  funky  when  leading  with  a  large  field  in  his  rear — 
a  predicament,  I  hasten  to  add,  in  which  he  seldom  placed 
himself.  But  Scott,  on  the  contrary,  always  shone  best  in 
front,  when,  clapping  on  all  sail,  he  would  try  and  sap  the 
heart's-blood  of  the  horses  following  him.  He  never  threw 
away  a  chance  by  waiting  till  some  worse  animal  had  stolen 
upon  him  a  la  Chiffney  ;  but  "  if  he  had  quality,"  to  quote 
his  own  expression,  he  always  made  use  of  it,  and  choked 
off  the  poor  devils  contending  against  him  in  the  first  half- 
mile.  If,  however,  he  had  a  slug  under  him,  Bill  would,  by 
force  of  whip,  thew,  and  sinew,  lift  him,  if  possible,  to  the 
front  first  past  the  post.  He  only  won  the  Derby  on 
Mundig  in  1835  by  riding  him  "  energetically,"  as  he  put 
it  (Bill  was,  as  I  have  said,  partial  to  long  words),  till  within 
the  distance,  and  finally  landed  him  first  by  sheer  hard 
riding. 

To  one  of  the  traits  of  character  essential  for  a  finished 
jockey,  as  specified  by  "  Nimrod,"  namely,  an  insensibility 
to  provocation  bordering  on  apathy,  Bill  Scott  had  no 
pretensions  ;  strong  proof  of  which  appeared  when  he  had 
won  the  Oaks  in  1838  upon  Lord  Chesterfield's  Industry. 
On  that  occasion  he  and  Arthur  Pavis,  who  was  riding 
Lord  Suffield's  Calypso,  were  seen,  as  they  came  struggling 
neck  and  neck  towards  the  winning-post,  to  be  far  more 
intent  on  punishing  each  other  than  the  animals  they 
bestrode.  It  should,  however,  be  mentioned  that  Pavis,  in 
his  anxiety  to  win,  began  the  attack ;  but  Scott,  having 
succeeded  in  getting  the  rails,  had  the  whip  hand  of  his 
opponent — an  advantage  he  was  not  slow  in  availing 
himself  of,  as  Arthur's  back,  and  his  own  well-stuffed 
pocket-book  on  the  following  Tuesday,  could  amply  have 
testified. 

The  late  James  Goater  used  to  tell  a  most  amusing 
incident  that  occurred  to  him  on  the  first  occasion  of  his 
wearing  Lord  Portsmouth's  colours.  Very  many  years 
ago,  at  Oxford  races.  Lord  Portsmouth's  trainer  went  to 
Goater  and  asked  him  if  he  was  engaged  for  the  next  race. 


58  SPORTING   STORIES 

as,  if  not,  he  would  like  him  to  ride  one  of  his  Lordship's. 
Jem,  who  had  not  a  mount,  gladly  accepted  the  offer, 
weighed  out,  and  ultimately  won,  after  a  grand  display  of 
jockeyship  on  his  part.  Some  little  time  afterwards,  whilst 
Goater  was  talking  to  a  friend.  Lord  Portsmouth  came  up 
to  him  and  said,  "  Goater,  you  rode  an  excellent  race,  and 
I  am  much  pleased." 

Jem,  who  did  not  know  his  Lordship  by  sight,  considered 
it  a  great  impertinence  for  a  most  shabbily  dressed  man  (it 
was  one  of  Lord  Portsmouth's  peculiarities  to  wear  old  and 
worn-out  clothes)  to  interrupt  him,  curtly  replied, "  Oh  yes ; 
glad  you  think  so,"  and  resumed  his  conversation,  to  the 
great  horror  of  his  friend,  who,  knowing  Lord  Portsmouth, 
was  simply  dumbfounded,  and  vainly  endeavoured  by  facial 
signs  to  make  Goater  attend  to  him. 

Continuing,  Lord  Portsmouth  said,  "  I  must  make  you  a 
present,  Goater,  for  winning."  Jem,  scarcely  turning  towards 
him,  answered,  "  Never  mind,  old  chap  ;  glad  you  won  a  bit 
on  it." 

His  Lordship,  who  by  then  had  quite  grasped  the 
situation,  walked  away  exploding  with  laughter,  whereupon 
Goater's  friend  immediately  exclaimed,  "  You  damned  fool, 
that's  Lord  Portsmouth  himself!" 

Goater,  when  telling  this,  always  wound  up  by  saying, 
"  I  didn't  want  a  Turkish  bath  to  make  me  sweat  then." 

How  Goater  rode  for  Lord  Portsmouth  as  long  as  he 
owned  race-horses,  and  what  an  attachment  existed  between 
master  and  servant  henceforth,  until  the  "  grim  king " 
claimed  them  both,  is  a  matter  of  history. 

Apropos  of  Goater  and  Lord  Portsmouth,  it  was  on  the 
occasion  of  riding  that  nobleman's  grand  horse  Buccaneer 
for  the  Royal  Hunt  Cup  in  1861  that  "  the  Admiral  "  made 
his  maiden  bow  with  the  starter's  flag ;  and  a  nice  mess  he 
made  of  it.  There  had  been  a  lot  of  complaints  just  before 
this  as  to  the  starting,  and  Admiral  Rous,  in  his  charac- 
teristic manner,  said,  "  I'll  start  'em  myself,  and  make  these 
jockey  boys  mind  their  p's  and  q's."  It  was  scarcely  wise 
to  commence  on  a  field  of  thirty-three  runners  (the  number 
in  Buccaneer's  year),  but,  boiling  over  with  wrath  and 
indignation,  down  went  the  gallant  old  salt,  flag  in  hand, 


TRAINERS   AND   JOCKEYS  59 

thinking  that  his  appearance  alone  in  the  position  of  starter 
would  strike  terror  and  dismay  into  the  hearts  of  the 
hitherto  unruly  jockeys.  So  far  from  this  being  the  case, 
however,  he  absolutely  had  not  the  slightest  control  over 
them,  and  such  a  scene  as  that  which  ensued  was  probably 
never  before  witnessed  at  a  starting-post.  Goater  was 
determined  not  to  get  left,  and  in  answer  to  the  Admiral's 
gruff  remark  of,  "  You  at  least  know  better,  Goater,"  said, 
"  Beg  pardon.  Admiral,  but  I  am  afraid  of  getting  too  near 
those  boys  for  fear  of  getting  my  horse  kicked."  This, 
of  course,  was  Jem's  "  kid."  At  last,  after  an  hour's  delay, 
and  when,  if  possible,  the  competitors  were  in  worse 
position  to  be  started  than  they  had  been  at  any  time 
previously.  Admiral  Rous,  livid  with  rage,  threw  down  the 
flag,  shouting  at  the  same  time  at  the  top  of  his  naturally 
strong  and  rough  voice,  "  Go,  and  be  damned  to  you  ! " 
Goater  got  a  flying  start,  and  being  on  a  very  speedy  horse 
and  quick  beginner,  was  never  headed,  winning  in  a  canter 
with  the  big  weight  of  8  st.  7  lbs.  This  was  Admiral 
Rous's  first  and  last  attempt  at  starting. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  WASTING  OF  JOCKEYS 

As  a  rule,  jockeys  increase  in  weight  when  they  are  not  at 
work,  but  with  medicine  and  hard  labour  they  can  usually 
pull  ofif  a  lot  of  flesh  in  a  very  short  time.  In  an  emer- 
gency more  than  one  has  been  known  to  reduce  himself 
7  lbs.  in  24  hours ;  and  in  four  hours  Nat  Flatman  is 
credited  with  getting  rid  of  4J  lbs.  when  he  had  to  ride 
Vulcan.  The  old  generation  of  jockeys  seems  to  have 
been  a  stronger  and  hardier  breed  than  those  of  the  present 
day ;  and  for  some  of  the  weights  in  the  great  races  the 
wasting  process  was  very  severe.  It  was  a  piteous  spectacle 
to  see  Sam  Chiffney  stepping  out  with  his  lop-ears  down 
and  a  grim  visage,  the  perspiration  coming  out  of  every 
pore  as  he  tore  along  the  Dullingham  Road,  in  order  to 
boil  himself  down  to  8  st.  2  lb.  for  an  Ascot  Cup  mount. 

In  their  remote  country  quarters  jockeys  had  little  else 
to  think  of  than  reducing  their  weights,  in  order,  as  Sidney 
Smith  remarked,  to  be  in  a  condition  "  to  take  off  their 
flesh  and  sit  down  in  their  bones."  Jacques,  I  think,  put 
himself  through  the  process  more  severely  than  most 
jockeys  ;  for,  after  leaving  off"  riding  for  many  years  and 
growing  corpulent  as  a  licensed  victualler,  he  resumed  the 
sweaters  and  wasted  down  to  7  st.  3  lbs.  in  order  to  don  the 
white  and  blue  for  his  old  master  Colonel  Craddock,  when 
Sim  Templeman  could  not  ride  the  weight;  Stephenson 
and  Dockeray  were  specially  difficult  to  deal  with,  and 
they  took  lots  of  time  to  get  fit,  until  at  last  they  were 
obliged  to  leave  the  saddle. 

Tiny  Wells,  in  1853,  fainted  on  Malton  race-course  when 
getting  down  to  5  st.  5  lbs. ;  while  Job  Marsden,  who,  like 
Bill  Scott,  always  would  have  the  rails,  after  not  declaring 

60 


THE   WASTING   OF   JOCKEYS        61 

so  low  for  more  than  eleven  years,  astonished  everyone  in 
1855  by  scaling  only  7  st.  7  lbs.  for  his  winning  mount 
on  Skirmisher  at  Richmond.  Sam  Day,  again,  after  a  rest 
of  many  years  and  a  consequent  increase  of  flesh,  got 
down  in  1846  to  8  st.  4  lbs.,  a  wonderful  instance  of  self- 
denial,  suffering  much  less  than  his  brother  John  from  such 
"  a  pigskin  revival,"  though  he  had  been  far  longer  out  of 
practice. 

Even  the  immortal  Mark  Tapley  might  have  taken  a 
lesson  in  cheerfulness  under  misfortunes  from  Sam  Day, 
or  "  Uncle  Sam,"  as  he  was  always  called.  No  man  ever 
had  such  a  string  of  accidents  or  was  so  plucky  under 
them,  for  at  different  times,  while  riding  for  Dick  Goodisson, 
he  broke  nearly  every  bone  of  his  body  (except  his  right 
arm),  skull  and  jaw  included :  one  leg  was  twice  broken — 
once  by  jumping  out  of  a  carriage  at  Goodwood,  when  an 
omnibus  backed  into  it,  and  again  by  slipping  down  on 
the  marble  floor  of  a  hall.  Sam's  spirits,  however,  never 
forsook  him.  When  laid  up  he  would  console  himself  with 
a  tin  pipe,  upon  which  he  had  learned  to  play  with  rare 
skill.  Once  he  was  laid  upon  his  back  for  nine  months, 
and  astonished  the  farmers  among  whom  he  was  sojourning 
at  the  time  by  the  taste  and  brilliancy  with  which  he  per- 
formed a  variety  of  pastoral  and  martial  airs. 

Sam  used  to  say  he  could  "  kill  a  town  wasting " ;  and 
this  was  no  idle  boast,  as  he  proved  more  than  once.  One 
night  he  was  supping  at  Hobson's  the  trainer's,  when  a 
letter  came  from  Lord  Henry  Fitzroy  stating  that  the 
Duke  of  Grafton's  mare  Loo  was  to  run  the  next  day  in 
an  A.F.  ^  race,  and  that  the  money  was  on.  Sam  finished 
his  helping,  and  then  went  off  to  a  weighing  machine, 
which  made  him  8  st.  4  lb.  without  his  coat ;  but  he  went  at 
it  like  a  Briton,  and  with  physic  and  a  fourteen-mile  walk 
got  off  12  lbs.  and  won. 

Sometimes  Sam  would  show  his  ruddy,  steaming  face  at 
Wimbledon  and  depart  like  a  flash  before  they  could  make 
out  his  mission.     Again,  he  would  be  found  in  his  woollen 

*  A.F.  =across  the  flat.  Newmarket  differs  from  other  race-courses 
in  that  the  races  do  not  all  finish  at  the  same  winning-post.  Races 
can  finish  up  or  down  hill  or  on  the  level,  as  desired. 


62  SPORTING   STORIES 

attire  on  Greenwich  Hill  during  Easter,  not  only  getting 
"  scratched  "  himself,  but  running  after  a  large  field  of  girls, 
who  called  him  "the  mysterious  stranger,"  and  doing 
immense  execution  with  his  scratcher  in  return.  The 
"scratcher,"  I  should  explain,  was  something  like  the 
peacock-feather  "  tickler  "  of  Mafeking  days,  and  the  girls 
and  lads  chased  one  another  armed  with  "  scratchers." 
After  this  exciting  sport  of  "  scratching,"  he  was  not  only, 
according  to  his  own  phrase,  "  fit  to  fight  a  windmill,"  but 
to  win  the  Derby  and  Oaks  as  well.  Sam  was  very  fond 
of  holding  forth  to  the  young  jockeys  on  wasting.  "  Drink- 
ing," he  would  say,  "  inflates  you  just  like  a  balloon ; 
champagne  and  light  wines  are  all  rubbish — they  only 
blow  a  fellow's  roof  off.  But  no  man  can  work  if  he  can't 
eat  ;  you  can't  get  light  without  eating — have  a  good 
mutton  chop,  that's  my  style."  Then  he  would  add,  "  De- 
pend on't,  a  man  doesn't  know  the  comforts  of  life  if  he 
doesn't  know  the  wastin'  part  of  it." 

Another  jockey  famous  in  the  wasting  line  was  Sam 
Darling,  who  gave  up  riding  in  1844.  His  walks  for 
twenty-five  years  in  the  sweaters  alone  were  estimated  to 
have  totalled  5000  miles.  He  quite  knocked  up  young  Day, 
who  was  considered  a  good  pedestrian,  in  a  strong  twelve- 
mile  walk  from  Newmarket  to  the  Swan  at  Bottisham  and 
back.  John's  sweaters  got  slack,  and  he  was  so  dead-beat 
that  he  had  to  give  in.  In  1832  Sam  rode  174  races  and 
won  73.  One  year,  after  riding  in  the  St  Leger,  he 
borrowed  a  clever  hack  from  a  brother  jockey,  and,  catching 
the  coach  at  Sheffield,  won  twice  at  Shrewsbury  the  next 
day,  and  had  time  to  waste  as  well. 

Nat  Flatman's  real  Christian  name  was  Elnathan,  and  he 
was  a  Suffolk  lad  by  birth.  It  was  in  1841  that  he  per- 
formed the  astonishing  feat  of  reducing  himself  in  two 
days  from  7  st.  12  lbs.  to  7  st.  4  lbs.  To  realise  the  wonderful 
nature  of  this  feat,  it  must  be  remembered  that  there  were 
no  Turkish  baths  in  those  days — only  salts,  sweating,  and 
starvation — neither  were  there  "  skeleton  "  or  even  2-lb. 
saddles.  But  Nat's  drastic  "  wasting  "  had  its  reward,  for 
he  steered  the  Irish  Vulcan  to  victory  for  the  Cambridge- 
shire.    His  ordinary  riding  weight  was  7  st.  8  lbs.,  which 


THE   WASTING   OF  JOCKEYS        63 

gave  him  an  immense  advantage  over  his  most  formidable 

rivals    in  the    saddle;    for  while  Frank    Butler  and  Sam 

Chiffney  were  tearing  their  "  too  solid  flesh"  to  pieces  and 

enduring  untold  agonies  in  the   process,   little    Nat,   "  the 

Pocket    Hercules,"   was    comparatively   enjoying    himself. 

Even  in  the  very  height  of  the  racing  season  he  always  had 

his  pint  of  beer  at  breakfast,  and  there  was  a  comfortable 

look  about  him  which  would  have  led  a  casual  observer  to 

suppose  that  it  cost  him  no  trouble  to  get  himself  down  to 

the   lowest   weight   in  a  handicap.     Fortunately  for  Nat, 

he  was   not   naturally  inclined  to  make  flesh,  and  at    50 

his  ordinary  riding   weight    was   only    11  lbs.  more  than 

at   29.      There   is   a   portrait   of  him    by    J.   F.  Herring, 

mounted  on  Voltigeur,  sitting  square  and  strong  as  was  his 

wont,  and  the  painter  has  cleverly  conveyed  a  suggestion 

of  the  jockey's  peculiar   style  of  "  hustling."     There  was 

nothing  brilliant,  however,  in  Flatman's  horsemanship  :  his 

set-to  was  usually  hurried  and  fussy ;  he  had  neither  the 

wonderful  power  of  Bill    Scott,  the  electric  dash  of  Sam 

Chiffney,  nor  the  elegance  of  Jem  Robinson  or  Alfred  Day 

(all  of  whom  were  his  contemporaries),  and  yet  at  Newmarket, 

for  many  seasons  in  succession,  he  rode  twice  as  often  and 

was  more  than  twice  as  successful  as  any  of  his  rivals.     At 

one  time  he  was  able  to  reckon  his  250  mounts  in  a  season 

— a  prodigious  record  for  those  times.     *'  I  shall  die  happy 

if  I  can  win  a  hundred  races  in  a  season,"  he  used  often  to 

say  in  his  earlier  days.     He  attained  his  ambition  in  1848, 

by  scoring  104.    That  was  his  high- water  mark  :  94  was  the 

nearest  approach  he  ever  made  to  it.     This  looks,  at  first 

sight,  but  a  poor  record  as  compared  with  that   of  Fred 

Archer  from  1881  to  1885,  viz.  220,  210,  232,  241,  and  246. 

But  the  number  of  races  was  much  smaller  in  Nat's  time, 

and  his  percentage    of    wins   was   perhaps   greater   than 

Archer's.     Nat  Flatman  won  his  first  Derby  in  1844;  but  it 

was  not  a  satisfactory  victory,  for  his  horse,  Orlando,  was 

second  to  Running  Rein,  and  it  was  only  through  the  latter 

being  disqualified  for  fraudulent  entry  that  Orlando  was 

returned  the  winner.     That  year  Nat  made  the  largest  sum 

he  ever  realised  in  one  season — ^^5000.     I  think  I  could 

name  more  than  one  jockey  of  these  later  days  who  has 


64  SPORTING    STORIES 

netted  as  much  and  more  over  a  single  race !  But  Nat 
managed  to  amass  a  very  respectable  fortune,  though  he 
never  betted  largely.  He  won  nearly  all  the  great  prizes 
on  the  Turf  except  the  Oaks. 

Before  Wells  and  Fordham  came  on  the  scene  there  was 
no  jockey  in  such  continual  request  as  Nat  Flatman,  and 
the  following  story  will  show  how  great  was  his  popularity. 
At  the  rooms  at  Newmarket,  one  night,  a  match  was  made 
between  Mr  Jacques  and  Mr  O'Brien  to  run  Semiramis 
against  Queen  of  the  Gipsies.  Each  of  these  sportsmen  had 
Nat  in  mind  when  the  weights  were  fixed,  and  the  question 
was  which  could  secure  him.  Mr  Jacques  slipped  out  first, 
went  straight  to  Nat's  lodging,  and,  finding  that  he  had 
gone  to  bed,  threw  some  gravel  up  at  the  window.  In  a 
minute  or  two  Nat's  solemn,  night-capped  head  was  seen 
behind  the  blind,  then  he  opened  the  window  and  asked — 

"  Who's  there  ?  " 

"  Nat,  I  want  you  for  a  match  to-morrow,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What's  the  weight  ?  " 

"  Seven  stone  nine." 

"  Then  I  can't  do  it,  sir.     Good-night." 
And    Nat   went   back    to  his   bed.     But  he  had   scarcely 
pillowed  his  head  when  there  came  another  rattle  of  gravel 
against  the  window.     This  time  it  was  Mr  O'Brien,  breath- 
less with  haste. 

"  Nat,  I  want  you  for  a  match  to-morrow." 

"  What's  the  match  ?  " 

"  Queen  of  the  Gipsies  against  Semiramis." 

"  Can't  do  it.      I'm  engaged  already." 
In   went    Nat's   head,   down   came  the  window,  and    Mr 
O'Brien  was  left  lamenting. 

Fred  Archer  carried  "  wasting "  to  a  point  where  it 
becomes  fatal.  In  his  last  Cambridgeshire  he  had  to  get 
himself  down  to  8  st.  7  lbs.  to  ride  St  Mirin.  After  he  had 
won  the  Criterion  Stakes  on  Caller  Herrin'  by  a  master- 
piece of  jockeyship  he  went  straight  home,  had  a  dose  of 
his  "  wasting  mixture,"  got  into  his  vapour  bath,  where  he 
remained  over  two  hours,  and  then  went  to  bed,  in  order 
that  he  should  not  be  tempted  to  eat.  He  did  not  taste 
food  (I  have  this  information  from  one  of  his  most  intimate 


THE   WASTING   OF   JOCKEYS        65 

personal  friends)  from  the  Saturday  morning  until  he  had 
ridden  St  Mirin  on  the  following  Tuesday  afternoon ! 
Every  Turfman  knows  how,  after  a  desperate  race,  St  Mirin 
was  done  on  the  post  by  Sailor  Prince,  to  whom  he  was 
giving  three  years  in  age  and  a  stone  in  weight. 

Archer  bore  his  defeat  like  a  stoic,  and  when,  on  coming 
out  of  the  weighing-room,  "  Hotspur "  of  the  Daily 
Telegraph  said  to  him  sympathisingly,  "  Sorry  you  were 
beaten,  Fred,"  Archer,  without  so  much  as  a  muscle  on 
his  face  moving,  replied  quietly,  "  So  am  I."  And  the 
stoicism  was  the  more  credible  because  he  stood  to  win  a 
fortune  on  St  Mirin.  "  I  had,"  he  told  the  friend  I  have 
already  mentioned,  "^7000  of  my  own  money  on;  much 
more  than  I  ever  had  or  ever  shall  have  on  a  horse  again, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Melton  I  should  have  won  it  to 
a  certainty.  I  thought  he  was  going  home  by  himself 
at  the  red  post,  and  I  was  bound  to  go  after  him  ;  but 
I  had  no  sooner  got  to  his  girths  than  he  stopped  as  if  shot. 
Of  course,  I  dared  not  pull  my  horse  about,  and  so  in 
reality  I  was  making  running  for  Sailor  Prince,  giving  him 
three  years  and  a  stone  over  the  most  severe  course  in 
England." 

Melton  was  ridden  by  Tom  Cannon,  and,  up  to  the  point 
at  which  he  suddenly  collapsed,  seemed  to  have  the  race  at 
his  mercy.  "  Melton  wins  !  Melton  wins  !  "  was  the  shout 
from  hundreds  of  throats,  and  above  the  din  came  the  roar 
of  one  well-known  stentorian  voice,  "  Two  hundreds  to  one 
on  Melton."  But  before  the  echo  of  that  shout  died  away, 
Melton,  to  the  utter  consternation  of  his  backers,  had  shot 
his  bolt  and  was  done  for. 

All  who  are  au  courant  with  Turf  affairs  know  that  Captain 
Machell  at  a  certain  period  of  his  career  owed  much  of  his 
success  to  the  counsels  of  Fred  Archer,  with  v/hom  he  was 
on  such  intimate  terms  that  one  winter  he  made  the  great 
jockey  his  travelling  companion  to  Monte  Carlo. 

The  breaking  off  of  this  friendship  came  about  in  a  curious 
way  ;  it  is  another  case  of  cherchez  la  femme,  though  not  in 
the  usual  sense  of  the  proverb.  Every  racing  man  knows 
what  a  pest  a  betting  woman  is,  and  how  persistently  she 
will  tout  for  a  tip.     When  Archer  was  going  to  ride  Queen 

5 


66  SPORTING   STORIES 

Bee,  one  of  these  gamblers  in  petticoats  ran  up  to  him  in 
the  Birdcage  and  begged  him  to  tell  her  what  was  going  to 
win,  as  she  wanted  to  put  on  a  ten-pound  note.  Out  of 
mischief  more  than  anything  else  he  gave  her  Draycot,  while 
just  before  he  had  told  the  Captain  to  back  his  own  mount, 
Queen  Bee.  By  one  of  those  peculiar  freaks  of  fortune  which 
the  fickle  goddess  is  fond  of  playing  upon  her  votaries, 
Draycot  won  by  a  head.  Immediately  afterwards  the 
delighted  lady  met  the  Captain,  and  told  him  of  her  good 
luck ;  and  upon  his  asking  who  had  given  her  the  tip,  she 
answered,  "  Archer."  Naturally,  the  Captain  was  in  a  rage, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Save  me  from  my  friends,"  in  the  jockey's 
hearing.  As  Fred  had  lost  ;^iooo  by  Dray  cot's  winning, 
he  was  equally  exasperated  by  the  remark,  and  from  this 
misunderstanding  an  ill-feeling  sprang  up  between  them, 
which,  however,  might  have  blown  over  but  for  Archer's 
tragic  death  not  long  afterwards. 

Among  the  many  good  stories  current  about  the  famous 
"  Tinman,"  I  give  the  following  which  may  be  new  to  some 
of  my  readers.  When  Fred  Archer  was  savaged  by  Lord 
Falmouth's  horse,  Muley  Edris,  he  was  advised  to  see  Sir 
James  Paget.  That  eminent  surgeon,  having  examined  and 
dressed  the  wound.  Archer  requested  to  know  how  long  it 
would  take  to  heal. 

"  Oh,"  said  Sir  James,  "  I  think  in  three  or  four  weeks 
you  will  be  all  right." 

"  But  shall  I  be  fit  for  the  Derby  ?  "  asked  Archer. 

"Ye-es,"  was  the  reply,  "oh  yes  ;  I  think  you  may  go 
to  the  Derby." 

"No,  but  you  don't  quite  understand  me.  Sir  James," 
persisted  the  jockey.     "  I  mean,  shall  I  be  fit  to  ride  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer.  "  Better  drive  ; 
better  drive  " 

Archer,  rather  taken  aback  by  this  innocent  and  unex- 
pected rejoinder,  had  to  explain.  "  I'm  afraid,  sir,  you 
scarcely  realise  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  surgeon  politely,  referring  to  the  patient's 
visiting-card.  "  I  see  I  have  the  honour  of  receiving  Mr 
Archer,  but " 

"  Well,"  said  Archer,  "  I  suppose  I  may  say  that  what  you 


THE   WASTING   OF   JOCKEYS        67 

are  in  your  profession,  Sir  James,  I  am  in  mine,"  and  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  him  what  that  profession  was.  The  famous 
surgeon  was  at  once  greatly  interested,  and  asked  him 
many  questions;  among  others,  what  would  be  his  loss 
supposing  he  should  be  unable  to  fulfil  the  Derby  engage- 
ment. To  which  Archer  replied,  "  About  ^2000."  His 
average  income  he  stated  to  be  about  i^Sooo ;  upon  which 
Sir  James  is  said  to  have  remarked  :  "  You  may  well  say 
that  what  I  am  in  my  profession  you  are  in  yours.  I  only 
wish  that  my  profession  were  half  as  profitable  as  yours." 
But  that  was  modesty  on  Sir  James's  part,  for  his  income 
at  this  period  must  have  been  not  far  short  of  double  that 
sum. 

Archer  was  far  more  liberal  and  kind-hearted  than  most 
people  gave  him  credit  for  being.  In  proof  of  which  we 
give  the  following  anecdote : — 

An  old  widow,  in  very  poor  circumstances,  wrote  to 
Archer  a  short  time  before  his  death,  and  asked  him  to  put 
five  shillings  upon  some  horse  for  her,  saying  that  she  had 
an  old  crown  piece  given  to  her  by  her  mother,  and  she 
wished  to  make  some  money  with  it.  She  added  that  she 
could  not  afford  to  lose,  and  wished  Mr  Archer  to  place  it 
on  a  horse  that  would  be  sure  to  win.  Archer  was  kind 
enough  to  answer  the  epistle,  and,  what  was  better,  gave 
the  old  dame  a  piece  of  excellent  advice.  He  advised  her 
to  keep  her  crown  piece,  and  not  to  dabble  in  horse-racing. 
Besides  this,  he  enclosed  in  his  letter  a  sovereign,  as  a 
solatium  for  the  unpalatable  advice  he  was  forced  to  give 
her.  Archer,  I  happen  to  know  from  private  sources,  was 
always  ready  with  his  money  when  distress  in  any  shape 
tugged  at  his  coat-skirts,  and  this  was  only  one  of  many 
generous  acts  on  his  part. 

His  father,  as  a  steeplechase  jockey,  was  only  second  to 
Tom  Olliver ;  and  Fred  scored  his  first  win  on  Maid  of  the 
Mist,  belonging  to  Mrs  Willing,  in  some  Welsh  pony 
steeplechases.  He  could  have  taken  champion  rank  as 
the  smallest-boned  man  in  creation  for  his  inches;  and 
from  his  boyhood  he  was  extremely  delicate.  It  was  on 
this  account,  and  also  because  he  thought  him  a  lad  of 
promise,  that  Matthew  Dawson  took  a  great  fancy  to  him. 


68  SPORTING   STORIES 

Until  his  marriage,  in  1883,  Archer  lived  with  his  old 
master,  and  his  requirements  were  so  few  that  two  rooms 
satisfied  him.  It  was  in  the  extreme  flexibility  of  his 
hands  and  the  delicate  manipulation  of  a  horse's  mouth 
that  the  "Tinman"  rose  so  superior  to  his  fellows.  It  is 
not  for  one  of  the  present  generation  to  compare  this  later 
darling  of  the  Turf  with  such  men  as  Frank  Buckle,  the 
Chiffneys,  the  Arnulls,  etc.  ;  but  in  his  own  day  Archer 
was  unapproachable.  He  held  his  life  in  his  hands  when- 
ever turning  Tattenham  corner ;  and,  although  so  reckless 
in  the  saddle,  it  is  said  that  in  his  early  days  he  had  a 
dreadful  fear  of  death — not  of  death  pure  and  simple,  but 
the  awful  fear  that  he  might  be  buried  in  a  trance. 

Falmouth  House,  on  the  Bury  road,  just  under  a  mile 
from  Newmarket,  was  built  by  him  for  the  reception  of  his 
bride,  the  daughter  of  his  old  master's  brother  John 
Dawson  ;  but  she  died  soon  after  the  birth  of  her  first 
child,  a  girl.  The  widow  of  a  former  patrician  of  the  Turf 
was  so  infatuated  with  the  popular  jockey  that  she  offered 
to  settle  ;^io,ooo  a  year  (her  income  was  about  ^20,000) 
upon  him  if  he  would  marry  her  ;  but  Archer  politely,  but 
firmly,  refused. 

In  the  last  winter  of  his  life,  when  Archer  went  to 
Cheltenham,  his  native  place,  to  indulge  in  his  favourite 
pastime  of  hunting  and  renew  old  acquaintanceships,  he 
weighed  10  st.  7  lbs.,  and  if  he  had  let  nature  take  her 
course  he  was  naturally  an  1 1  st.  man.  At  Falmouth 
House  he  had  fitted  up  a  most  elaborate  Turkish  bath,  as 
hot  as  Hades,  and  in  this,  when  getting  down  weight,  he 
used  literally  to  parboil  himself  Previous  to  the  com- 
mencement of  the  racing  season  Archer  had  eighteen 
Turkish  baths  in  one  week,  and  his  self-denial  in  the 
matter  of  food  would  have  given  a  start  and  a  beating  to 
the  most  ascetic  of  anchorites.  His  prescription  for 
wasting  was  written  by  an  eminent  London  physician,  and 
made  up  by  Dr  Wright,  whose  establishment  is  at  the  end 
of  the  town,  near  the  race-course,  and  this  powder  ho  was 
continually  taking.  In  order  to  ride  St  Mirin  he  went,  as 
I  have  already  stated,  without  food  for  three  days,  and  was 
for  eighteen  hours  in  a  Turkish  bath,  and  so  much  did  he 


THE   WASTING   OF   JOCKEYS        69 

reduce  himself  that,  with  all  the  paraphernalia  (excepting 
the  whip)  appertaining  to  riding,  he  weighed  only  8  st. 
7  lbs. ! 

All  who  are  versed  in  Turf  lore  are,  of  course,  familiar 
with  the  famous  finishes  of  George  Fordham.  But  here 
is  a  story  of  one  which  will,  I  think,  be  new  to  most  of  my 
readers.  It  took  place  at  the  Salisbury  races  of  1867,  on 
the  second  day  of  the  meeting,  when  four  two-year-olds 
started  for  the  Stonehenge  Plate  of  £$0 :  Lady  Barbara, 
with  Fordham  up  ;  Hue  and  Cry,  ridden  by  Tom  French  ; 
whilst  Tom  Cannon  was  on  Brenda  and  Saddler  on  Active. 
The  two  latter  were  soon  beaten  off,  but  the  other  two 
came  on,  the  jockeys  knee  and  knee  together,  and  finished 
a  dead-heat.  Now  Lady  Barbara  belonged  to  the  young 
Marquis  of  Hastings,  who  was  not  the  man  to  cry  a  go  ;  and 
he  determined  to  run  it  off,  which  they  did.  On  they  came, 
knee  and  knee  together  again.  If  the  horses  had  been  the 
Siamese  Twins  they  could  not  have  been  much  closer 
together,  and  amidst  the  most  deafening  shouts  they  finished 
another  dead  heat.  This  time  everybody  said,  "  Of  course 
they'll  divide  now  "  ;  but  not  a  bit  of  it.  The  horses  were  not 
distressed,  for  it  was  only  half  a  mile,  and  it  is  good  going 
on  the  Wiltshire  Downs.  So,  after  half  an  hour's  grace, 
they  came  out  to  do  battle  the  third  time,  and  on  each 
occasion  slight  odds  were  betted  on  Lady  Barbara.  I  will 
let  an  old  friend  of  mine  who  saw  the  race  describe  it  in 
his  own  words,  "  Well,  now  you  shall  hear  what  that  deep 
old  file  did.  In  the  two  previous  heats  he  rode  on  the  near 
side,  or,  in  other  words,  the  side  next  to  the  grand  stand 
and  betting  ring,  and  I  noticed  that  Hue  and  Cry  leaned 
a  good  deal  against  Lady  Barbara,  who  also  leaned  towards 
her  opponent.  So,  to  make  it  understood  better,  they  were 
both  propping  one  another  up ;  and  when  Tom  French  used 
his  whip  just  at  the  finish  of  the  second  heat,  I  observed 
that  his  mare  swerved,  and,  had  it  not  been  for  the  friendly 
prop  of  the  other,  would  have  gone  wide.  Master  George 
says  to  himself, '  All  right,  Tommy,  you  are  not  going  to 
have  me  for  a  leaning-post  always,'  so  in  the  last  essay 
he  changed  sides  at  the  start.  On  they  came  to  the 
commencement  of  the  stand  by  the  box-wood  bushes,  and 


70  SPORTING   STORIES 

we  really  thought  it  was  going  to  be  another  tie  ;  but  when 
they  both  called  on  their  horses,  Tommy's  whip  drove 
Hue  and  Cry  swerving  on  to  the  railing  side,  as  she  had 
no  Lady  Barbara  to  lean  against,  and  George,  sending  her 
ladyship  along,  won  by  three  lengths.  It  was  the  most 
remarkable  display  of  judgment  I  ever  saw,  and  though 
sorry  for  Tom's  defeat,  no  one  begrudged  losing  by  it, 
as  it  was  the  head  of  a  general  that  won  the  battle  for 
Danebury." 

A  story  is  told  of  the  connection  between  Fordham 
and  Mr  Bowes  which  ought  to  be  true  if  it  is  not.  It  is 
popularly  supposed  that  during  the  score  of  years  in  which 
Fordham  had  Mr  Bowes  for  master  he  only  saw  him  once, 
and  that  the  meeting  came  about  in  this  wise.  Ascot  had 
attracted  its  customary  team  of  the  Whitehill  horses,  and 
Fordham  was  saddling  one  of  the  Northern  nags  in  the 
paddock.  A  grey-haired  stranger  watched  the  proceedings 
with  what  the  jockey  thought  was  a  greater  degree  of 
interest  than  a  casual  looker-on  was  entitled  to  show,  so 
that  by  degrees  the  usually  amiable  countenance  of  old 
George  assumed  a  decidedly  morose  expression.  At  length 
the  stranger  ventured  to  ask  a  question.  Would  the  jockey 
be  so  good  as  to  tell  him  the  name  of  the  horse  he  was 
saddling  ?  "  What  the  dickens  have  you  to  do  with  it  ?  " 
burst  out  the  irritated  rider ;  "  who  the  devil  are  you  ?  " 
"  Well,"  apologetically  replied  the  grey-haired  gentleman, 
"  I  think  that  I  am  the  owner  of  that  animal.  My  name 
is  John  Bowes." 

Mat  Dawson  was  the  hero  of  a  somewhat  similar  anec- 
dote. When  Mat  trained  for  Lord  John  Scott,  the  latter's 
brother,  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  paid  him  a  visit,  and  as 
a  matter  of  course  was  taken  down  to  see  the  stud.  Mat 
being  in  attendance.  Lord  John  led  the  way  from  box 
to  box,  describing  each  one  as  he  went  along  ;  crying, 
"  Wattie "  (this  was  the  Duke),  "  come  and  see  this  one. 
Wattie,  I  think  this  one  will  win  the  Derby,"  and  so  on,  until 
presently  Wattie  and  Mat  fell  a  little  behind.  Then  Mat 
taps  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Now  Wattie,  when  his  Lordship 
goes  to  bed  to-night,  slip  down  and  I  will  give  you  a  glass  of 
toddy  "  ;  and  Wattie  accepted.     What  transpired  deponent 


THE   WASTING   OF   JOCKEYS        71 

sayeth  not ;  but  next  morning  Wattie  let  the  cat  out  of 
the  bag  with  a  hearty  laugh,  and  then  Matthew  Dawson 
discovered  to  his  horror  that  he  had  been  hob-nobbing 
with  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch ;  but  "  Wattie "  gave  him  a 
firm  shake  of  the  hand,  saying  he  was  the  right  man  in  the 
right  place,  and  a  jolly  good  fellow  to  boot. 

And  the  mention  of  Mat  Dawson  reminds  me  of  a  curious 
story  of  his  brother  Tom  of  Tupgill.  When  Ellington  won 
the  Derby  in  1856,  Tom  Dawson  of  Tupgill,  who  trained 
the  colt,  netted  about  ;^2 5,000.  On  the  Monday  after  the 
race  he  went  to  Tattersalls  to  receive  his  money.  The 
whole  of  it  was  paid  to  him  in  bank-notes.  After  the 
settling,  he  dined,  and  took  the  train  for  home,  first  having 
packed  his  bank-notes  in  an  old  leathern  hat-case  without 
any  lock,  but  simply  tied  with  a  piece  of  string.  He  fell 
asleep  in  the  train,  and  when  the  guard,  who  knew  him  well, 
awoke  him  at  Northallerton  and  told  him  he  must  change 
carriages,  Mr  Dawson  got  out,  leaving  the  old  hat-case 
behind.  In  those  days  telegraphy  was  not  quite  so  simple 
a  matter  as  now,  and  Mr  Dawson  did  not  recover  his  hat- 
case  for  a  whole  week,  during  which  time  it  had  travelled 
to  Edinburgh,  Aberdeen,  and  various  other  places.  Ulti- 
mately it  came  back  to  the  rightful  owner  with  the  string 
neither  cut  nor  untied,  and  with  all  the  bank-notes  safe 
inside.  I  need  hardly  say  that  Mr  Dawson,  with  that 
astuteness  that  never  forsakes  the  professional  Turfite, 
took  care  not  to  display  the  slightest  anxiety  about  his 
hat-case,  but  merely  informed  the  station-master  that  he 
had  had  it  for  a  good  many  years,  and  as  there  were 
some  papers  in  it  of  no  use  to  anyone  but  himself,  he 
should  like  to  recover  it. 

I  will  bring  these  recollections  of  jockeys  to  an  end  with 
an  amusing  adventure  of  Mornington  Cannon  and  Cordelia 
on  the  Cesarewitch  day  of  1891.  As  the  horses  were 
leaving  the  Birdcage  for  the  Autumn  Handicap,  one  of  the 
fiercest  storms  ever  known  at  Newmarket  swept  over  the 
Heath.  The  hailstones  came  down  like  pistol-bullets,  and 
Cordelia,  maddened  at  the  tempest,  swerved,  made  for  the 
rails,  and  ran  through  them,  getting  her  head  under  the 
second   line   of  posts,  and   sending  Mornington  over  the 


72  SPORTING   STORIES 

rails  and  right  into  a  carriage,  the  door  of  which  was  at  the 
moment  open.  Two  ladies  were  inside,  and  on  the  front  seat 
lunch  was  still  uncleared.  The  popular  young  jockey  pulled 
himself  together  a  bit,  assured  his  astonished  hostesses  that 
he  was  not  hurt,  and  at  once  accepted  their  kindly  suggestion 
of  a  glass  of  wine.  Mornington  had  been  wasting  hard  to 
ride  Victorious  at  7  st.  12  lbs.,  and  he  had  not  had  time  since 
the  Cesarewitch  to  lunch;  he  therefore  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  that  he  was  very  hungry.  The  ladies, 
though  they  had  not  precisely  invited  him  to  come  in,  were 
delighted  to  entertain  him  ;  and  so,  while  the  other  jockeys 
who  had  weighed  out  for  the  race  were  being  drenched, 
wind-smitten,  and  battered  by  hailstones  at  the  post,  Morny 
Cannon  sat  dry  and  comfortable  in  the  carriage,  regaling 
himself  with  chicken  and  champagne.  As  Morny  after- 
wards remarked,  it  was  rather  an  odd  way  to  call  on  ladies 
in  a  carriage  at  lunch  time,  over  rails  and  head  first;  but 
all's  well  that  ends  well. 


CHAPTER  VII 

QUEER  CHARACTERS  OF  THE  TURF 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  odd  characters  for  whom  the  Turf 
has  at  times  proved  attractive.  John  Elwes,  most  famous 
of  misers,  loved  the  sport  dearly,  and  another  equally 
griping  disciple  of  Harpagon,  Councillor  Lade,  was 
devoted  to  racing.  Bred  to  the  law,  Lade  abandoned 
his  profession  for  the  more  congenial  pursuit  of  the  Turf, 
breeding  and  training  a  number  of  horses  at  his  seat, 
Canon  Park,  between  Kingsclere  and  Overton,  in  Hamp- 
shire. His  principal  ambition  was  to  win  country  plates, 
and  he  never  sent  a  horse  to  Newmarket  until  two  years 
before  his  death,  when  he  won  both  classes  of  the  Oatlands 
Stakes  with  a  horse  christened  Oatlands  in  honour  of  the 
event.  As  a  miser,  he  extended  his  saving  to  his  stables 
as  well  as  to  his  kitchen  and  pantry  ;  and  so  wretched  was 
the  condition  of  his  numerous  stud  when  the  horses  were 
sold  at  Tattersalls  after  his  death,  that  they  excited  uni- 
versal pity  in  the  towns  and  villages  through  which  they 
passed  between  Hampshire  and  London.  Lade  would 
drive  his  curricle  and  greys  the  fifty-seven  miles  between 
London  and  Canon  Park  without  taking  them  out  of 
harness,  or  giving  them  more  than  a  handful  of  hay  and  a 
mouthful  or  two  of  water.  He  made  the  journey  unattended, 
as  he  considered  "  servants  on  the  road  were  more  trouble- 
some and  expensive  than  their  masters." 

A  queer  character  on  the  Irish  Turf  was  Shawm,  the 
hump-backed  jockey,  who  died  some  fifty  years  ago.  His 
employer  was  a  sportsman  named  Brown,  who  lived  in  County 
Galway,  and  amassed  a  considerable  fortune  by  racing, 
mainly  through  the  prowess  of  his  extraordinary  jockey. 

When  Mr  Brown  came  of  age,  he  had  but  little  property 

73 


74  SPORTING   STORIES 

besides  two  horses,  which  were  named  Friar  and  Mother 
Brown.  He  took  for  a  servant  Shawm,  who  was  then 
about  19  years  of  age  and  one  of  the  most  impudent, 
malicious,  and  ill-formed  lads  in  that  part  of  the  kingdom. 
Civility  he  could  not,  or  would  not,  comprehend ;  doing 
harm  was  his  delight ;  his  mind  and  body  were  equally 
deformed,  for  he  had  an  awful  hump  on  his  back. 

What  induced  Mr  Brown  to  engage  this  impish  creature 
was  no  doubt  his  horsemanship,  which  is  said  to  have  been 
of  the  most  desperate  kind.  At  all  events,  Mr  Brown 
scraped  together  enough  money  from  his  friends  to  enter 
his  two  horses  for  the  forthcoming  races  at  Tuam.  Shawm 
was  appointed  to  ride.  Fourteen  horses  started  for  the 
first  race,  and  among  them  was  Friar,  a  splendid  gelding, 
with  Shawm  on  his  back.  This  was  the  first  race  of  both 
the  horse  and  the  rider.  They  looked  something  out  of 
place  on  the  Turf,  especially  the  ugly  hunchback,  with  his 
spindle-legs.  The  whole  course  was  laughing  at  him  as  he 
proceeded  from  the  scales  to  the  starting-post. 

But  their  ridicule  was  soon  turned  into  applause.  When 
the  flag  fell.  Shawm  came  away  with  the  lead  in  a  most  dash- 
ing style,  well  ahead  of  his  thirteen  competitors,  and  main- 
tained his  lead  all  the  way  through,  winning  by  five  lengths. 

This  first  essay  of  the  Shawm  boy  and  the  gallant 
gelding  Friar  landed  Mr  Brown  the  winner  of  £1700  and 
several  carriages.  Had  he  lost  he  would  have  been  ruined, 
and  would  probably  have  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 

On  the  second  day  Mother  Brown  was  engaged.  She 
had  only  run  once  before,  and  had  been  unplaced  ;  but 
Shawm  was  not  in  the  saddle  on  that  occasion,  and  that 
made  all  the  difference.  The  fact  of  her  ignominious 
beating  caused  her  to  start  at  a  long  price,  and  Mr  Brown 
took  the  odds  to  a  large  sum.  Sixteen  horses  started. 
Mother  Brown  was  in  the  middle  of  them,  and  for  a  while 
she  continued  so.  But  when  the  field  got  to  the  distance 
she  came  away,  and  won  in  a  canter  by  seven  lengths, 
amid  enthusiastic  cheers  from  the  crowd,  to  the  further 
enrichment  of  her  owner. 

Henceforth  Friar,  Mother  Brown,  and  Shawm  were  all 
the    rage    in    Galway   sporting   circles.     They   swept   all 


QUEER  CHARACTERS  OF  THE  TURF  75 

before  them  at  West  of  Ireland  race  meetings.  Mr  Brown 
never  forgot  what  a  debt  of  gratitude  he  owed  to  the 
gelding,  the  mare,  and  the  hunchback,  who  had  saved  him 
from  ruin.  When  the  horses  died,  he  had  their  heads 
splendidly  mounted,  and  placed  in  the  most  conspicuous 
part  of  his  hall.  And  when  Shawm  got  unfit  for  riding 
and  unable  to  move  about  himself,  his  grateful  master 
engaged  a  man  to  wait  on  him,  and  allowed  him  a  bottle 
of  wine  every  day,  with  plenty  of  pocket-money.  Shawm 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  but  he  was  a  terrible 
master  of  the  Irish  tongue.  He  was  as  abusive  as  he  was 
deformed.  He  had  civility  for  his  horses  alone ;  to  them 
he  was  kind,  and,  according  to  report,  the  noble  animals 
reciprocated  his  affection.  He  was  buried  in  his  riding- 
dress,  and  had  what  his  neighbours  called  a  very  respectable 
funeral,  all  the  sportsmen  of  the  place  turning  out  in  his 
honour.  He  was  drawn  to  his  grave  by  two  racers,  both 
the  offspring  of  his  favourite  Mother  Brown. 

Another  eccentric  figure  on  the  race-course  was  Mr  John 
Dilly,  a  once  well-known  trainer,  whose  extravagance  and 
recklessness  became  a  byword.  After  borrowing  of  any 
and  every  one  he  could,  and  having  tired  out  all  his 
relations,  he  hit  upon  the  following  successful  scheme  to 
raise  £2^  from  his  brother.  He  was  then  living  at  New- 
market, and  his  brother,  Mr  Montgomery  Dilly,  at  Littleton, 
in  Hampshire.  John  Dilly  wrote  to  the  latter  in  a 
disguised  hand: — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  your  poor 
brother,  Mr  John,  is  no  more.  He  departed  this  life  this 
morning,  almost  without  a  struggle.  Feeling  sure  you 
would  like  him  to  have  a  decent  burial,  I  have  given 
instructions  to  the  undertaker  to  see  this  carried  out.  I 
think  the  expense  will  be  about  £}f>\  but  if  you  send  your 
cheque  for  £2^,  I  will  get  the  accounts,  and  send  them  to 
you  as  soon  as  the  funeral  is  over.  I  hope  you  will  not 
think  I  am  officious  in  this  matter,  but  if  there  is  anything 
else  you  wish  to  have  done,  please  let  me  know,  and  I  will 
attend  to  it. — Yours  faithfully, 

William  Smallbody." 


76  SPORTING   STORIES 

A  cheque  was  duly  forwarded  with  a  letter  thanking 
Mr  Smallbody  for  his  kind  interposition.  It  was  duly 
received,  and  as  duly  acknowledged  by  Mr  Smallbody. 
Mr  Montgomery  Dilly,  Mr  W.  Dilly,  and  their  two  sisters 
all  went  into  mourning;  but  to  the  great  surprise  of  the 
first-named  gentleman,  on  his  visiting  Newmarket  a  few 
days  later,  who  should  he  come  across  but  his  brother  John, 
still  in  the  flesh,  alive  and  hearty.  Naturally  the  one 
brother  upbraided  the  other  for  his  heartless  deceit.  To 
this  the  other  replied :  "  Ah,  Gomery,  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  send  me  anything  to  keep  me  alive,  but  I  thought 
you  might  pay  up  to  see  me  safely  underground." 

Many  years  ago  there  was  a  well-known  man  upon  the 
Turf  named  John  Kilburn,  who  made  a  living  by  list- 
selling.  On  one  occasion,  having  lost  his  money  betting, 
he  found  himself  stranded  in  a  Bedfordshire  town  with- 
out the  means  of  getting  to  Richmond,  in  Yorkshire,  where 
the  race  meeting  was  just  coming  on,  and  where  he  hoped 
to  recoup  himself  for  his  losses.  Desperate  diseases  require 
desperate  remedies,  and  as  the  only  means  of  performing 
the  journey  in  time  he  hit  upon  the  following  daring 
expedient.  He  made  a  friend  of  his,  a  blacksmith,  stamp 
on  a  padlock  the  words  "  Richmond  Gaol,"  and,  fixing 
with  this  a  broken  chain  to  one  of  his  legs  he  lay  down 
beside  the  high  road,  and  when  he  saw  a  constable  coming 
pretended  to  be  asleep.  As  he  anticipated,  he  was 
arrested,  and  taken  before  a  magistrate,  who,  paying  no 
attention  to  his  half-hearted  assertions,  ordered  two 
constables  to  convey  him  to  Richmond  prison,  from  which 
he  fully  believed  Kilburn  had  made  his  escape.  When  the 
constables  arrived  at  the  gaol  they  asked  the  turnkey  who 
opened  the  gates  if  he  knew  the  prisoner. 

"  What !  Jack  Kilburn  ?  I  should  say  I  did  ;  I've  known 
him  for  years.  What  is  the  meaning  of  Jack  being  in  this 
pickle?" 

"  Why,  he's  broken  out  of  here,  hasn't  he  ? "  said  one  of 
the  constables.     The  turnkey  burst  out  laughing. 

"  He's  never  been  in  here,  to  my  knowledge,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
never  heard  a  word  against  his  character  before.  But 
what's  up.  Jack?" 


QUEER  CHARACTERS  OF  THE  TURF  77 

"Well,"  said  the  list-seller,  with  a  sly  grin,  "these 
gen'l'men  have  been  kind  enough  to  bring  me  all  the  way 
from  Bedfordshire,  and  I  won't  put  them  to  any  further 
trouble.  I've  got  the  key,  and  can  unlock  the  padlock 
myself.  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  them,  indeed,  for  bring- 
ing me  here  just  in  time  for  the  races." 

The  story  spread  everywhere,  and  Kilburn  was  never 
seen  on  a  course  afterwards  without  somebody  calling  out, 
"  Hullo,  Jack  !  where's  your  padlock  and  chain  ?  Any  more 
prison-breaking  ?  " 

Among  the  curious  characters  on  the  Turf  in  years  gone 
by  was  a  bookmaker  named  Richards,  or  "  Short  Odds,"  as 
he  was  nicknamed.  He  made  a  queer  figure  on  the  course, 
dressed  in  brown  kerseymere  breeches,  brown  drill  gaiters, 
a  brown  coat,  and  an  old-fashioned  jacket  called  a  spencer, 
and  always  with  a  choice  flower  in  his  button-hole.  The 
story  of  Richards's  life  was  a  singular  one.  He  began  as  a 
stocking-maker,  and  first  took  up  betting  at  the  door  of  a 
cockpit.  Being  shrewd  and  lucky,  he  soon  advanced  to 
higher  things,  and  made  a  book  on  some  of  the  Northern 
races,  progressing  until  at  last  he  became  a  "  warm  man." 
But  he  was  exceedingly  eccentric  in  all  he  did.  When 
going  to  Newmarket  he  would  drive  one  horse  and  lead 
another  behind  his  gig.  One  of  these  was  a  big  brown, 
17  hands  high ;  and  after  going  a  stage  he  would  change 
them  about,  putting  them  alternately  between  the  shafts. 
His  own  corn  always  went  with  him  in  a  bag,  and  a 
cargo  of  stockings  as  well.  "  Why  did  he  carry  a  cargo 
of  stockings  with  him  to  the  race-course  ?  "  did  you  say  ? 
Well,  he  always  tried  to  make  his  clients  take  out  their 
money  in  hosiery ! 

"  Dicky "  was  always  ready  for  a  bet.  "  There's  old 
Richards,  and  if  he  hasn't  come  out  hunting  with  an 
umbrella  ! "  cried  some  gentlemen  when  that  worthy  put  in 
an  appearance  at  a  meet.  "  And  I'll  bet  you'll  not  hunt 
with  or  without  an  umbrella  at  my  age,"  said  Dicky, 
coming  up  to  them.  "  Who's  to  hold  the  stakes  ?  "  asked 
one.  "  Oh,  there'll  be  some  of  you  left  when  I'm  gone, 
perhaps ;  we'd  leave  'em  to  him,"  was  the  answer. 

Richards  was  very  particular  about  stale  bread  ;  he  used 


78  SPORTING   STORIES 

to  lock  it  up  in  the  sideboard  until  it  was  a  fortnight  old, 
and  put  back  the  crust  if  he  could  not  finish  it.  These, 
however,  were  only  fads,  for  there  was  nothing  of  the  miser 
about  him.  Old  "  Short  Odds  "  made  a  pot  of  money  ;  he 
lived  to  fourscore,  and  only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death 
was  on  Newmarket  Heath  as  lively  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  FIRST  STEEPLECHASE  AND 
ITS  SEQUEL 

Steeplechasing  is  a  sport  of  considerable  antiquity,  and 
those  who  have  searched  for  its  beginnings  say  that  its 
origin  can  be  traced  back  as  far  as  the  year  1752.  Ireland 
seems  to  have  been  the  land  of  its  birth.  An  old  MS.  in 
the  possession  of  the  O'Briens  of  Bromoland  records  a 
match  run  in  that  year  over  4^  miles  of  country,  between 
Mr  O'Callaghan  and  Mr  Edmund  Blake,  the  course 
being  from  the  Church  of  Buttevant  to  the  spire  of  St 
Leger  Church.  Such  matches  were  probably  common 
enough,  but  it  was  not  till  1803  that  what  is  spoken  of  as 
"the  first  regular  steeplechase"  was  got  up  in  Ireland. 
The  festivity  of  a  hunt  dinner  inspired  the  match-makers, 
who  agreed  to  ride  for  a  sweepstake — but  neither  date, 
course,  nor  figures  are  given.  The  "  added  money  "  was 
a  hogshead  of  claret,  a  pipe  of  port,  and  a  quarter  cask 
of  rum. 

There  is  a  much  greater  wealth  of  detail  in  the  record  of 
the  first  steeplechase  ever  run  in  England.  We  have 
names,  dates,  incidents  of  the  race,  all  "  according  to  Cocker." 
1  subjoin  a  condensed  version  of  the  narratives. 

On  a  certain  evening  in  December  1803,  in  the  mess- 
room  of  the  cavalry  officers  then  quartered  in  Ipswich,  a 
young  captain  named  Hansum  challenged  anyone  in  the 
regiment  to  run  against  a  favourite  grey  horse  of  his, 
4  miles  across  country,  for  a  "  pony,"  As  the  place  was 
very  dull  at  the  time,  a  chorus  of  voices  cried,  "  Done  ! 
done ! "  "  Four  miles  and  a  half,  from  here  to  Nacton 
Church,  now.  It's  a  moonlight  night,  the  weather  open, 
and  the  country  clear." 

79 


80  SPORTING   STORIES 

Ready  for  anything,  the  chorus  assented,  and  rushed  off 
to  prepare. 

Someone  suggested  they  should  wear  nightshirts  over 
their  uniforms,  and  cotton  nightcaps  on  their  heads.  The 
proposition  was  hailed  with  acclamation,  and  eight  riders 
were  soon  ready  to  start,  with  a  body  of  troopers  in  the 
background  to  witness  the  fun. 

Away  they  went  in  nightshirts  and  caps,  making  strong 
running,  and  lying  well  together.  At  the  first  fence  one  of 
the  racers  turned  a  somersault,  and  horse  and  rider  were 
landed  in  a  muddy  ditch  ;  while  a  Major  Medley,  with  his 
shirt-tail  flying  in  the  wind,  vainly  tugged  at  his  old 
charger  to  get  him  over  the  same.  The  remaining  six 
got  safely  across,  and,  with  some  ups  and  downs,  reached 
Nacton  Heath.  But  the  last  fence  presented  a  most  varied 
picture  of  reverses.  One  jumped  smash  through  the  middle 
of  a  five-barred  gate.  Hansum's  grey  took  a  strong  wattle 
fence  and  bank  in  beautiful  style.  Two  fell,  but,  whooping 
like  maniacs,  the  remainder  clattered  through  the  quiet 
village,  startling  the  country-folks  out  of  their  beds,  and 
making  them  believe  the  French  had  landed  and  were 
upon  them ;  the  sight  of  the  white  shrouded  figures  in  the 
cold  moonlight,  shrieking  as  if  a  troop  of  demons  were  in 
pursuit,  filling  them  with  terror. 

"  The  steam  of  their  steeds, 

Like  a  mist  of  the  meads, 
Veiled  the  moon  in  a  curtain  of  cloud, 

And  the  stars  so  bright 

Shuddered  in  light 
As  the  unhallowed  troop  in  their  shadowy  shroud, 
Galloping,  whooping,  and  yelling"  aloud, 
Fast  and  unfailing,  and  furious  in  flight, 
Rattled  on  like  a  hailstorm,  and  vanished  in  night." 

For  many  a  year  afterwards,  some  of  the  good  wives  of 
Nacton  believed  it  was  a  troop  of  devils  they  had  seen. 

This,  according  to  the  Sporting  Magazine,  was  the  earliest 
steeplechase  on  record,  and  suggested  ideas  that  developed 
into  a  new  era  in  sport.  But  there  are  strong  suspicions 
entertained  that  no  such  race  ever  took  place,  and  that 
the  whole  story  is  an  invention  of  some  ultra-imaginative 
journalist. 


THE   FIRST   STEEPLECHASE         81 

A  more  credible  story  appeared  in  the  Sportmg  Magazine 
for  1805,  under  the  heading  of  "  An  Extraordinary  Steeple- 
chase." The  account  says  :  "  On  the  last  Wednesday  in 
November  came  on  for  decision  a  match  which  created 
much  interest  in  the  sporting  world,  and  which  amongst 
that  community  is  denominated  a  steeplechase  ;  the  parties 
undertaking  to  surmount  all  obstructions,  and  to  pursue  in 
their  progress  as  straight  a  line  as  possible.  This  contest 
lay  between  Mr  Bullivant  of  Shroxton,  Mr  Day  of  Wymond- 
ham,  and  Mr  Frisby  of  Waltham,  and  was  for  a  sweep- 
stakes of  100  guineas  staked  by  each.  They  started 
from  Womack's  Lodge  at  half-past  twelve  (the  riders 
attired  in  handsome  jockey  dresses  of  orange,  crimson,  and 
sky-blue,  respectively  worn  by  the  gentlemen  in  the 
order  we  have  named  above)  to  run  round  Woodhall  Head 
and  back  again,  a  distance  somewhat  exceeding  eight  miles. 
They  continued  nearly  together  until  they  came  within 
a  mile  and  a  half  of  the  goal,  when  Mr  Bullivant — on  his 
well-known  horse  Sentinel — took  the  lead,  and  appearances 
promised  a  fine  race  between  him  and  Mr  Day ;  but,  un- 
fortunately, on  passing  through  a  hand-gate,  owing  partly 
to  a  slip,  Mr  Day's  horse's  shoulder  came  in  full  contact 
with  the  gate-post ;  the  rider  was  thrown  with  much 
violence,  and,  as  well  as  the  horse,  was  badly  hurt.  Never- 
theless, Mr  Day  remounted  in  an  instant,  and  continued 
his  course.  Mr  Bullivant,  however,  during  the  interruption 
made  such  progress  as  enabled  him  to  win  the  race  easily. 
The  contest  for  the  second  place  now  became  extremely 
severe  between  Mr  Day  and  Mr  Frisby,  and  Mr  Day  only 
beat  his  opponent  by  a  neck.  The  race  was  performed 
in  25  min.  32  sec." 

In  1833  Wiltshire  had  its  first  steeplechase,  and  Jem 
Hills  (who  was  then  huntsman  to  the  Vale  of  White 
Horse)  won  it.  This  event,  like  many  of  a  similar  kind, 
had  its  origin  in  a  match  made  after  dinner  between  Mr 
Horrocks  and  Lord  Ducie.^  The  former  matched  himself, 
on  one  of  his  own  horses,  against  the  whole  stud  of  his 
Lordship,  one  to  the  post,  and  Jem,  the  huntsman,  to  ride. 
The  conditions  were  that  it  was  to  be  "  4  miles  straight 

1  Lord  Ducie  was  Master  of  the  V.W.H.  1828  to  1843. 

6 


82  SPORTING   STORIES 

ahead,  neither  to  ride  more  than  lOO  yards  along  the 
road,  every  gate  to  be  locked,  and  no  fences  cut  down." 
The  ground  selected  was  from  Tadpole  Copse  to  Lyssal 
Hill  (near  Eyeworth),  over  the  water,  Eaton  Vale,  with 
the  bullfinches,  gates,  and  two  brooks  to  boot.  The  only 
guide-posts  were  a  flag  on  Lyssal  Hill  and  another  in  Cold 
Harbour  road,  and  the  riders  had  to  reach  the  goal  as  best 
they  could.  The  pair  met  in  scarlet  coats  and  hunting- 
caps  at  Cold  Harbour ;  Jem  with  five  horses  to  select  from, 
and  a  goodly  allowance  of  shot  to  make  up  the  required 
weight  of  13  st.  As  soon  as  he  had  arrived  at  the  brow 
of  the  hill  and  learnt  the  line,  he  determined  to  ride 
his  old  chestnut  mare.  But  the  history  of  the  run  had 
better  be  told  in  Jem's  own  words. 

"  The  first  fence,"  begins  he,  "  was  a  double  post  and 
rails.  We  both  sat  and  looked  at  it.  You  see,  I  wanted 
to  find  out  whether  he'd  take  his  own  line  or  follow  me, 
I  said,  '  This  won't  do.  Come,  you  have  at  it  first.'  He 
said,  *  No  ;  if  you  can't  have  it,  I  can't ! '  So,  as  it  was  no  use 
staying  there  all  day,  I  turned  the  old  mare's  head,  and  she 
popped  in  and  popped  out  again.  He  followed,  and  came 
over  very  prettily.  The  next  fence  was  a  great  bullfinch 
with  a  ditch.  We  got  over  that  very  well ;  then  I  said, 
'  Mind  your  next  fence ;  we  shall  both  fall.'  It  was  a 
stiffish  fence — a  post  and  a  rail — with  a  hedge  and  bank 
to  clear.  He  said,  as  we  were  coming  to  it,  '  Don't  let  us 
kill  one  another,  Jem  ;  I  won't  ride  on  you  if  you  won't  ride 
on  me.'  I  said,  '  Give  me  plenty  of  room,  and  give  him 
pepper.'  My  mare  cleared  nine-and-twenty  feet,  and  his 
horse  twenty-nine  and  a  half,  we  sent  'em  at  it  with  such 
force.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  high  in  the  air  before.  I 
could  see  Mr  Horrocks's  horse's  shoes  glittering  above  my 
shoulder.  Then  came  the  gate  to  Cold  Harbour  road. 
I  said, '  Mr  Horrocks,  which  of  us  shall  have  it  first  ? '  He 
said,  '  You  do.'  But  we  went  over  together,  side  by  side, 
our  boots  nearly  touching.  Same  way  through  the  bull- 
finch;  out  of  the  lane  like  a  bullet. 

"  Then  we  had  some  small  enclosures  with  very  big 
fences — what  I  call  creepers.  My  old  mare,  she  goes  the 
same  pace  all  the  way.     The  country  was  tremendously 


THE   FIRST   STEEPLECHASE         83 

deep.  When  I  found  that  he  intended  to  wait  on  me,  I 
knew  how  to  deal  with  him.  Then  we  came  into  a  dirty 
lane,  with  a  tremendous  fence  towards  us.  I  tried  the  old 
mare  at  it ;  it  knocked  her  backwards  into  the  ditch,  but, 
without  getting  a  fall,  she  recovered  herself.  I  said,  '  Now 
Mr  Horrocks,  you  have  a  try.'  We  were  very  friendly  all 
the  way.  He  said, '  No,  Jem  ;  if  your  old  mare  can't  bore  a 
hole,  my  horse  can't.'  So  I  put  her  at  it — I  couldn't  help 
myself — and  I  got  through  well ;  he  attempted,  and  his 
horse  floundered  and  he  nearly  got  off,  and  there  he  hung. 
I  looked  back  for  my  companion  when  I'd  got  half  a  field 
ahead,  and  when  I  saw  him  in  the  saddle,  and  coming  full 
tilt,  I  eased  my  mare.  We  had  two  miles  to  go  then,  up 
rising  ground.  I  kept  pulling,  and  he  kept  pressing  till  he 
caught  me ;  bullfinches  all  the  way,  but  not  so  big.  We 
got  very  well  over  them,  and  came  to  a  barn.  Then  there 
was  a  very  large  field  down  to  the  last  brook.  Lord  Ducie 
and  all  the  gentlemen  were  there.  I  was  a  hundred  yards 
ahead  when  I  passed  the  barn.  I  knew  devilish  well  that 
neither  of  our  horses  could  jump  the  brook  (you  know  they 
always  laugh  at  me  about  the  brooks).  The  gentlemen 
kept  hollering  at  him,  '  Now  Horrocks,  come  along — Jem's 
beat ! '  and  he  came  down  past  me  at  the  brook  as  fast  as 
his  horse  could  go.  Believe  me,  the  horse  jumped  right 
into  the  brook,  pitched  upon  his  head,  and  turned  with 
his  rump  on  to  the  other  side,  and  there  he  lay. 

"  I  rode  quietly  down  to  the  brook.  Lord  Ducie  was 
there  on  a  fresh  horse.  He  said, 'Jem,  Jem,  jump  it;  the 
mare  will  bring  you  over — I'll  give  you  a  lead  ' ;  and  over 
he  went,  and  jumped  it  beautifully.  I  pulled  up,  and 
sat  looking  at  Mr  Horrocks  in  the  brook.  It  was  quite  a 
study.  He  was  standing  on  the  bank,  and  the  bridle  came 
off;  he  fell  backwards  bridle  and  all,  and  the  horse  went 
sideways. 

"  Lord  Ducie  was  at  me  all  the  time  :  '  Come,  come,  Jem ; 
he'll  get  out.'  I  said,  '  No,  no,  my  lord  ;  there's  plenty  of 
time.'  Then  I  saw  a  ditch  which  led  from  the  brook  into 
the  field  at  the  opposite  side.  I  stood  as  long  as  I  could 
to  let  the  mare  get  her  wind :  the  pace  had  been  strong 
all  the  way.     When  I  thought  she'd  had  sufficient  time,  I 


84  SPORTING   STORIES 

let  her  down  very  quietly,  and  waded  her  across  the  brook, 
to  go  up  this  ditch.  She  made  a  plunge  or  two,  and  I 
went  up  it  twenty  yards,  and  into  the  field.  I  had  still  three 
fences  to  jump,  and  a  gate  at  the  finish.  My  mare  was  so 
beat  I  scrambled  her  on  to  them,  and  then  we  scrambled 
out.  The  gate  was  locked,  so  I  crammed  her  round  the 
gate-post  between  the  gate  and  the  hedge.  She  was  just 
like  my  old  horse  Bendigo — ^jump  anywhere  she  could  get 
her  head.  So  I  got  to  the  winning-post,  and  into  the 
farm-house,  and  had  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  before 
he  was  out  of  the  brook.  It  was  the  only  steeplechase  I 
ever  rode.  I  was  to  have  ridden  another  the  next  week  at 
Cheltenham,  only  the  horse  broke  down,  and  very  glad  I 
was.     I  never  wish  to  ride  another." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  sport  was  introduced 
into  France  by  M.  de  Thennberg,  who  established  steeple- 
chasing  at  Haras  du  Pen,  300  miles  from  Paris.  A 
handicap  claiming  race  was  set  on  foot,  and  ten  or  twelve 
English  horses  entered.  The  peasants,  in  their  zeal  to 
get  a  high  test,  secured  and  mortised  together  the  stiffest 
posts  and  rails  so  that  nothing  could  break  them,  the 
fences  were  built  up  with  wires,  a  ditch  was  dammed 
back  until  it  swelled  into  a  bog,  and  Multum  in  Parvo,  a 
fifteen-one  Lincolnshire  hunter,  and  Saucy  Boy,  with 
heavily  repaired  hocks,  were  the  only  two  that  got  over 
the  ground  at  all.  Their  victory  roused  the  Frenchmen 
to  a  frenzy  of  excitement.  Jem  Hill  (not  to  be  confounded 
with  the  Jem  Hills  already  mentioned),  who  rode  Multum 
in  Parvo,  was  carried  to  scale  on  their  shoulders.  But 
what  Jem  considered  a  greater  triumph  was  when  the 
prefect  of  the  commune  insisted  on  paying  him  the 
prize  (a  good  sum)  in  five-franc  pieces.  "  Only  to  think, 
master,"  he  said,  as  he  literally  staggered  beneath  the 
weight  of  coin  back  to  his  tent,  "  that  I  should  go  and  win 
more  money  than  I  can  carry."  Next  year  Jem  won  again 
on  Stoker,  when  there  was  quite  as  much  excitement  and 
much  less  to  jump. 

Poor  Jem's  luck,  however,  was  brought  to  an  end  by  a 
strange  fatality.  He  was  entrusted  with  the  care  of  some 
horses  intended  for  the  King  of  Sardinia,  which  he  was  to 


THE   FIRST   STEEPLECHASE         85 

deliver  at  Boulogne.  When  the  horses  were  landed  it  was 
discovered  for  the  first  time  that  Jem  was  missing,  that 
no  one  had  seen  him  on  board,  and  that  not  even  the  lip- 
strings  of  the  horses  were  undone.  A  letter  was  at  once 
despatched  to  England  to  the  owner,  but  from  the  day 
Hill  had  departed  with  his  charges  nothing  had  been  seen 
or  heard  of  him.  No  clue  was  found  until  the  very  steamer 
in  which  he  was  to  have  sailed  came  back  from  France, 
when  her  paddle-wheels  actually  turned  up  the  poor  jock 
out  of  the  mud  close  to  the  London  Bridge  quay.  Going 
on  board  in  the  dark,  he  had  slipped  between  the  two 
steamers  moored  together,  and  had  been  drowned,  or 
smothered  in  the  slime. 

On  Monday,  29th  February  1836  (leap  year),  the  first 
Liverpool  steeplechase  was  run  near  Aintree,  twice  round 
a  two-mile  course,  and  a  commentator  says :  "  A  strong 
recommendation  to  it  was  that  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
performance  could  be  seen  from  the  grand  stand."  The 
conditions  were  "  a  sweepstakes  of  10  sovereigns  each, 
with  80  added,  for  horses  of  all  denominations;  12  st. 
each ;  gentlemen  riders.  The  winner  to  be  sold  for 
200  sovereigns  if  demanded."  Captain  Beecher  (whose 
name  is  commemorated  in  Beecher's  Brook)  won  on  a  horse 
called  The  Duke.  And  I  think  it  was  three  years  later 
that  Johnny  Broome,  the  famous  prize-fighter,  who  was 
a  daring  and  clever  horseman,  rode  his  own  horse  Eagle 
for  the  same  race. 

In  the  autumn  of  1866,  the  Grand  National  Hunt 
Committee  having  been  formed,  its  rules  were  recognised 
and  enforced,  to  the  infinite  advantage  of  steeplechasing ; 
and  from  this  date  WeatJierbys  Steeplechase  Calendar, 
the  first  volume  of  which  bears  date  i?>66-y,  has  been 
issued. 

Earlier  than  this,  the  first  Grand  National  Hunt  Steeple- 
chase had  been  run.  The  date  of  the  first  contest  was 
i860,  the  place  Market  Harborough,  and  Mr  Burton 
beat  thirty  opponents  on  Mr  B.  J.  Angell's  Bridegroom. 
"The  Market  Harborough  course,"  a  member  of  the 
Grand  National  Committee  who  has  always  been  an 
advocate   of  big  jumps    confesses,  "  was   really  an   awful 


86  SPORTING   STORIES 

one."  The  aboriginal  oxer  prevailed  ;  the  brook  —  the 
river  Welland — was  cleaned  out  to  the  width  of  i8  ft. 
I  have  no  idea  of  the  depth,  but  the  scenes  which 
occurred  here  were  remarkable.  A  good  many  of  the 
provincial  riders  required  a  considerable  amount  of  "jump- 
ing powder "  to  induce  them  to  face  this  brook  and  other 
equally  formidable  fences.  A  lady  well  known  in  the 
sporting  circles  of  her  day,  however,  cleared  the  water 
before  the  assembled  multitude  in  cold  blood  !  The  owner 
of  Bridegroom  supplied  the  winner,  Queensferry,  who  was 
again  steered  by  Mr  Burton,  the  second  year. 

The  first  Grand  National  Hunt  recorded  in  Weatherby 
is  the  race  at  Bedford,  in  1867,  when  the  late  Captain 
Coventry  rode  Emperor  III.  and  won  by  six  lengths. 
That  was  as  stiff  a  course  as  could  well  be  found.  There 
was  a  double  post  and  rails  "  improved "  with  a  ditch, 
which  most  of  the  jockeys  objected  to,  and  it  was  conse- 
quently decided  that  one  of  the  rails  should  be  taken  down 
at  a  particular  spot  so  as  to  give  the  riders  the  option  of 
an  easier  place.  Captain  Coventry  made  no  objection  to 
this,  as  he  saw  that  by  going  straight  over  the  double  he 
could  gain  considerably  on  those  who  diverged  to  the  gap ; 
and  he  carrried  out  his  plan  most  successfully. 

I  shall  have  some  personal  anecdotes  and  reminiscences 
of  famous  steeplechasers  to  set  down  anon ;  but  for  the 
present  I  will  be  content  with  a  glimpse  at  the  grand  "  Old 
Squire,"  George  Osbaldeston. 

In  his  day  cross-country  jockeyship  was  but  little 
practised,  and  Grand  Nationals  and  professionals  were 
unknown.  No  regular  courses  were  laid  out ;  but  if  a 
match  had  to  be  settled,  four  miles  of  the  most  intricate 
country  in  Leicestershire  or  Northamptonshire  was  selected, 
and  the  riders  had  to  get  from  one  point  to  the  other 
as  best  they  could.  Consequently  there  were  greater 
opportunities  for  the  display  of  those  qualities  which  are 
the  essentials  of  a  steeplechase  jockey,  viz.  nerve  and 
knowledge  of  pace  and  country,  than  are  afforded  in  the 
events  of  the  present  day. 

Among  the  most  celebrated  of  the  matches  which 
Osbaldeston    rode    was    the    one    between    Clinker    and 


O  5 
DC  i 
CO 

z 
O 

CO 

o 

< 


THE   FIRST   STEEPLECHASE        87 

Clasher  for  looo  guineas,  made  while  he  and  Captain  Ross 
were  shooting  a  match  at  pigeons  at  the  Red  House, 
Battersea.  Clinker  had  always  a  first-rate  reputation  as  a 
fencer,  and  the  Squire  was  to  have  ridden  him  the  previous 
year  against  Clasher,  but  the  horse  falling  lame,  the  match 
went  off,  according  to  the  articles.  The  Captain  happening 
to  mention  that  Clasher  was  going  up  at  Tattersalls  that 
afternoon,  the  subject  was  renewed,  and,  after  a  great  deal 
of  chaffing,  the  match  was  remade,  with  the  condition  of 
the  Squire  riding — a  proceeding  he  rather  objected  to,  as 
at  the  time  he  was  High  Sheriff  of  Yorkshire — but  as  the 
stipulation  was  a  si7ie  qua  non,  he  consented.  The  line 
chosen  was  from  Dalby  Windmill  to  Lipton,  in  Leicester- 
shire ;  and  Dick  Christian,  then  in  his  zenith,  was  put  upon 
Clasher.  The  attendance  was  commensurate  with  the 
interest  the  event  created,  and  thousands  of  pounds  de- 
pended upon  the  result.  With  a  view  to  frightening  the 
Squire,  the  owner  of  Clasher  told  Dick  to  follow  in  his 
track,  and  to  ford  the  brook  for  the  purpose  of  saving  his 
horse.  These  tactics,  however,  had  quite  the  contrary 
effect  to  that  anticipated,  as  the  following  only  made  the 
Squire  more  determined,  while,  as  he  jumped  the  brook,  the 
wading  gave  him  a  good  lead  and  he  won  by  the  skin  of 
his  teeth. 

On  another  occasion,  when  Master  of  the  Pytghley, 
Osbaldeston  beat  Captain  Ross  on  Polecat  with  his  own 
horse  Pilot.  He  also  won  two  steeplechases  on  Grimaldi, 
who  ran  second  to  Moon-raker  for  the  great  St  Alban's 
race,  which  was  then  looked  upon  much  as  the  Grand 
National  is  now.  In  the  Harrow  country  he  won  on 
Grimaldi,  beating  Moon-raker  ;  and  over  a  frightfully  severe 
course  at  Dunchurch  he  defeated  General  Charittie  on  his 
grey  horse  Napoleon.  On  the  flat  he  was  hardly  as  good 
as  he  was  in  a  steeplechase ;  but,  take  him  all  round,  the 
Squire  was  hard  to  beat,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
no  horseman  of  the  century  surpassed  him  in  skill,  boldness, 
and  endurance. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TOM  OLLIVER 

"  We  have  no  great  steeplechase  riders  now,  sir ;  the 
race  is  extinct."  Such  was  the  sweeping  statement  of  a 
veteran  sportsman  whom  I  met  at  the  Queen's  Hotel, 
Birmingham,  a  week  or  two  before  the  Grand  National  of 
1904.  I  demurred  to  the  statement,  and  had  the  names 
of  Tom  Olliver,  Jem  Mason,  and  Captain  Beecher  flung  in 
my  face  with  the  emphatic  query,  "  Where  can  you  show 
me  any  steeplechase  rider  now,  sir,  who  could  hold  a 
candle  to  any  one  of  those?  I've  seen  'em  all  three  ride, 
sir,  and  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

Now,  as  I  never  saw  any  of  that  celebrated  trio  in  the 
saddle,  for  they  were  long  before  my  time,  it  was  not  easy 
to  dispute  that  assertion.  It  was  no  use  quoting  such 
names  as  Ede,  the  fine  horseman  known  in  the  saddle  as 
"  Mr  Edwards,"  who  met  his  death  on  the  Aintree  course, 
Yates,  Coventry,  and  Beasley  :  he  scoffed  at  them  all.  It 
was  like  mentioning  the  name  of  Henry  Irving  to  some 
cranky  old  worshipper  of  Edmund  Kean  or  Macready. 
For  the  jockey,  like  the  actor,  leaves  nothing  behind  him 
by  which  future  generations  can  judge  of  his  excellence. 
For  my  own  part,  I  am  ready  to  allow  that  the  heroes  of 
the  past  were  all  that  their  admirers  make  them  out  to 
have  been,  but  at  the  same  time  I  decline  to  admit  that 
we  of  to-day  are  in  any  branch  of  sport  inferior  to  our 
fathers  and  grandfathers.  If  we  are  not  their  superiors, 
we  are  at  any  rate  their  equals,  and  the  great  horsemen  of 
to-day  are  certainly  not  unworthy  successors  to  their  pre- 
decessors. 

But  in  regard  to  steeplechasing  I  must  say  this,  that 
the  feats  of  its  exponents  are  thrown  into  the  shade  by 

88 


ADVENTURES   OF   TOM   OLLIVER     89 

those  of  jockeys  on  the  flat,  and  the  public  shows  no  such 
interest  in  great  steeplechase  riders  as  it  did  in  the  days 
of  which  my  laudator  temporis  acti  at  Birmingham  is  a  sur- 
vival. And  there  was  a  savour  of  romance  and  adventure 
about  the  lives  of  such  men  as  Jem  Mason,  Tom  Olliver, 
and  Captain  Beecher  which  is  lacking  in  the  careers  of  our 
modern  knights  of  the  pigskin.  The  biographies  of  these 
men  teem  with  interesting  and  entertaining  anecdotes.  I 
will  take  Tom  Olliver  first,  because  I  know  him  personally 
and  have  had  many  a  yarn  with  him  after  he  had  settled 
down  as  a  trainer  at  Wroughton. 

Olliver  himself  used  frankly  to  admit  that  he  was  inferior 
as  a  horseman  to  Jem  Mason.  I  once  heard  him  say :  "  I 
have  ridden  hundreds  of  miles  across  country  with  Jem 
Mason,  not  only  in  steeplechases,  but  in  trials  of  recent 
purchases  brought  into  the  stable  by  his  father-in-law,  Mr 
Elmore.  I  can  say  it  without  fear  of  contradiction  that  he 
was  the  finest  horseman  in  England — I  have  never  ridden 
with  him  without  envying  the  perfection  of  his  style." 
Nevertheless,  many  good  judges  who  saw  both  men  ride 
at  their  best  were  of  opinion  that,  splendid  horseman  as 
Mason  was  when  all  went  well,  if  they  got  into  difficulties 
towards  the  finish  the  wonderful  presence  of  mind,  the  iron 
nerve,  and  the  daring  pluck  of  Olliver  would  pull  him 
through  against  Mason  or  any  man  living. 

Tom's  career  was  a  chequered  and  eventful  one,  and  few 
men  experienced  more  of  Fortune's  buffets  than  he.  His 
father  was  in  a  chronic  state  of  insolvency,  and  Tom  was 
left  to  run  to  seed.  Yet  though  the  youngster  early  showed 
his  love  of  horses  and  ability  to  ride  them,  his  father  would 
not  hear  of  him  becoming  a  professional  jockey. 

Fortunately  Tom  had  an  uncle,  Mr  Page,  a  well-known 
trainer  at  Epsom,  who  saw  that  his  nephew  had  the  stuff" 
in  him  of  which  great  horsemen  are  made. 

The  boy  had  a  strong  will  of  his  own,  and,  taking 
advantage  of  his  father's  absence  at  some  harvest  merry- 
making, he,  one  night,  tied  up  his  clothes  in  a  pocket- 
handkerchief,  crept  out  of  the  house,  and,  with  his  wardrobe 
slung  upon  the  end  of  an  ash  sapling,  and  fourteen  and 
sixpence  in  his  pocket,  which   he  had   been   for   months 


90  SPORTING   STORIES 

accumulating,  started  off  to  meet  the  early  coach  for  Epsom. 
His  uncle,  knowing  the  state  of  affairs  at  home,  received 
him  kindly,  but  insisted  that  one  half  of  each  day  should 
be  spent  in  school  and  the  other  half  on  horseback.  Tom 
remained  there  about  two  years  and  a  half,  when  Page  got 
him  the  light-weight  mounts  for  Lord  Mountcharles  at 
the  time  that  old  John  Day  was  riding  for  that  nobleman. 

Coronet,  at  the  Epsom  Spring  Meeting,  was  Tom 
Olliver's  first  mount  in  public  ;  but  he  was  unsuccessful,  and 
the  first  victory  he  secured  was  on  Icarus,  the  property  of 
General  Grosvenor.  He  was  then  living  with  Turner  at 
Inglemere  Cottage,  Ascot  Heath  ;  the  feeding  department, 
however,  was  so  indifferent,  and  Tom's  appetite  so  good, 
that  he  refused  a  three  years'  engagement,  and  went  back 
to  his  uncle,  who  found  him  a  place  with  the  famous 
Captain  Lock.  But  Tom  was  certainly  not  born  under  a 
lucky  star;  for  soon  afterwards  the  Captain  was  drowned 
abroad,  and  about  the  same  time  Uncle  Page  failed. 

The  consequence  of  the  double  calamity  was  that  the 
young  jockey  was  left  stranded,  with  three  shillings  and  a 
couple  of  greyhounds.  The  latter,  one  would  have  thought, 
were  encumbrances  which  the  impecunious  lad  would  soon 
have  disposed  of;  but  Tom  knew  a  trick  worth  two  of  that. 

He  had  a  knack  of  training  dogs,  and  he  trained  his 
greyhounds  to  sneak  about  the  butchers'  shops,  and  when 
the  attention  of  the  purveyor  of  meat  was  otherwise 
engaged  these  artful  foragers  would  snatch  up  any  small 
joint  that  was  handy  and  bolt  off  home  with  it,  where  it 
was  cooked  and  fairly  divided  between  the  thieves  and  the 
receiver.  But  this  game  could  not  go  on  for  ever,  and 
Tom's  dogs  became  so  notorious  that  he  thought  it  prudent 
to  shift  his  quarters,  and  one  fine  morning  started  for 
Brighton  with  twopence  in  his  pocket.  When  he  got  tired, 
he  mounted  on  a  rail  behind  a  gentleman's  carriage,  until 
the  coachman's  whip  found  him  out. 

Footsore  and  hungry,  he  trudged  on  a  little  farther,  when 
a  stage-coach  overtook  him,  the  driver  of  which  gave  him 
a  lift  into  the  town,  where  he  had  friends.  Soon  afterwards 
Uncle  Page  pulled  through  his  difficulties,  and  took  the 
lad  back. 


ADVENTURES   OF   TOM   OLLIVER     91 

Tom  stayed  with  his  uncle  another  two  years,  and  then 
got  an  engagement  with  a  Mr  Walter  Young  to  train  and 
ride  some  horses  for  him  in  the  West  of  England.  Soon 
afterwards  this  gentleman  proposed  that  the  young  jockey 
should  go  to  Ireland  and  train  for  him  on  his  Irish  estate, 
Rosemore  Lodge,  on  the  Curragh.  Thinking  he  had  fallen 
into  a  good  thing,  Tom  thankfully  accepted  the  offer  and 
went  off.  Upon  arriving  at  Rosemore,  however,  he  found 
that  Mr  Young's  affairs  were  far  from  flourishing:  there 
was  no  money  and  very  little  to  eat  at  the  lodge. 
Butter-milk  and  oatmeal  was  the  standing  dish ;  and, 
after  a  while,  whatever  edible  animal  remained  about  the 
place  disappeared  to  appease  his  appetite.  At  last,  when 
famine  stared  him  in  the  face,  his  employer  sent  him 
thirty  shillings  to  get  to  Liverpool  and  bring  two  horses 
with  him.  Thirty-seven  Irish  miles  did  he  travel  on  two- 
pennyworth  of  whisky  and  a  dry  biscuit.  When  he 
reached  Queenstown,  a  hungry  creditor  pounced  down  upon 
the  horses  and  carried  them  off.  The  next  day  Tom 
arrived  in  Liverpool  penniless. 

After  a  very  short  stay  in  Liverpool,  Olliver  found  a 
situation  as  foreman  to  an  Irish  horse-coper  named  Farrell, 
and  with  a  string  of  screws  visited  every  fair  in  England. 
Tom  was  a  rolling  stone  that  never  stayed  long  in  one 
place ;  and  broken  vows  to  a  fair  damsel,  who  "  loved  not 
wisely  but  too  well,"  compelled  him  to  make  tracks  from 
the  great  shipping  town.  Once  more  his  uncle's  roof 
received  him,  and  it  was  at  Egham  steeplechases  he  first 
caught  the  idea  of  adopting  that  line  of  life.  Mr  Bartley, 
the  bootmaker  of  Oxford  Street,  got  him  his  first  mount 
for  the  Finchley  steeplechase ;  but  his  mare  fell  into  a 
ditch  in  the  second  field  from  home,  and  returning  in  his 
wet  clothes  the  unfortunate  rider  caught  a  severe  cold,  lay 
speechless  for  six  weeks,  and  received  the  munificent  sum 
of  one  guinea  for  his  mount.  On  his  next  appearance  in 
the  pigskin  his  fee  was  increased  to  two  guineas — a  rise 
which  greatly  cheered  him. 

OUiver's  handsome  face,  well-made  figure,  firm  seat,  and 
manner  of  handling  a  horse  soon  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  owners  of  steeplechasers,  and  he  quickly  obtained 


92  SPORTING   STORIES 

plenty  of  work.  The  first  performance  that  brought  him 
into  notoriety  was  riding  Harlequin  in  a  hurdle-race  at 
Clifton.  Perhaps  a  finer  contest  of  the  kind  was  never 
witnessed,  since  he  had  for  competitors  that  grand  sports- 
man Captain  Beecher  on  his  famous  Sir  Peter,  while  the 
celebrated  jockey  Powell  was  on  another  noted  horse  of 
the  day,  named  Pennyweight.  It  was  a  tremendous 
struggle,  but,  to  the  surprise  of  everyone,  Olliver  won  each 
heat  by  a  head.  After  this  he  went  over  to  Leamington, 
and  engaged  with  Sir  Edward  Mostyn  at  i^ioo  a  year  and 
expenses  for  first  call  ;  but  no  sooner  was  he  in  full  swing 
than,  with  his  usual  luck,  he  had  a  bad  fall  and  broke  his 
collar-bone. 

Tom  next  entered  into  partnership  with  Curie  wis,  for  whom 
he  rode  Paddy  Carey,  Bodice,  and  The  Greyling;  but  the 
speculation  failed,  and  plunged  him  head  over  ears  in  debt. 

He  became  in  immense  request  among  sheriffs'  officers 
in  consequence  of  the  number  of  his  autographs  that  were 
floating  about  the  country ;  indeed,  so  numerous  did  the 
writs  become  at  last,  that,  to  save  the  trouble  of  writing, 
it  was  proposed  to  lithograph  his  name.  Tom,  however, 
was  difficult  to  catch;  he  was  continually  shifting  his 
quarters,  and  he  had  a  little  grey  pony  which,  he  averred, 
could  smell  a  writ  a  mile  off,  and  always  started  away  at 
full  gallop  at  the  sight  of  a  "bum."  He  was  once  asked 
when  he  rode  best.  "  Well,  you  see,"  he  answered,  "  when 
you've  got  the  traps  in  your  house,  and  the  '  bums '  after 
you,  and  you  say  to  yourself,  within  three  fields  of  home, 
'  If  my  nut  is  screwed  on  a  little  better  than  those  other 
beggars',  and  I  can  beat  'em,  how  pleased  my  poor  wife  and 
kids  will  be,'  that  makes  me  ride." 

When  Tom  Olliver  rode  his  celebrated  match  on  The 
Greyling  against  Alan  Macdonough  on  Cigar,  the  moment 
he  appeared  upon  the  course  he  was  tapped  upon  the 
shoulder.  It  was  his  last  chance.  "  Let  me  ride,  and  I'll 
stand  a  couple  of  quid  and  surrender  myself  the  moment 
the  race  is  finished,"  he  said  to  the  Sheriffs  ofificer.  The 
latter  was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  and  consented.  These 
were  certainly  unpleasant  circumstances  under  which  to 
ride  a  steeplechase — enough  to  shake  any  man's  nerve. 


ADVENTURES   OF   TOM   OLLIVER     93 

Tom,  however,  rode  splendidly,  but,  agitated  and  anxious, 
he  was  beaten,  though  only  by  half  a  length.  He  kept 
his  word,  however,  and  was  marched  off  to  Northampton 
Gaol,  where  he  stayed  for  a  month,  and  the  officers  of  the 
19th  Lancers  stationed  in  the  town  softened  the  severity 
of  the  punishment  by  supplying  him  with  food  from  their 
mess.  Tom  offered  his  creditors  two  shillings  in  the 
pound  ;  they  refused,  and  got  nothing,  for  Tom  spent  all 
the  money  between  the  time  of  the  offer  and  his  discharge 
from  the  Court  of  Bankruptcy. 

As  soon  as  he  was  free,  Tom  took  the  "  Star "  at 
Leamington,  upon  a  capital  of  seven  and  sixpence,  the 
whole  of  which  he  spent  in  whitewash  and  a  brush  to 
furbish  up  his  premises ;  the  brewer,  baker,  and  others 
standing  tick.  He  started  riding  again,  won  some  big 
victories,  received  large  presents,  and,  if  he  had  been  a 
little  prudent,  might  have  been  comfortable ;  but  he  went 
the  pace,  and  in  a  little  time  the  good  people  of  Leamington 
knew  him  no  more,  though  his  memory  was  cherished  by 
his  numerous  creditors.  The  Greyling  episode  was  repeated 
at  Newport  Pagnell  steeplechases.  He  was  arrested 
before  the  race,  but  allowed  to  ride;  and  this  time  he  won, 
and  was  able  to  discharge  the  myrmidon  of  the  law. 

During  an  examination  in  the  Bankruptcy  Court  at 
Bristol,  finding  things  were  going  against  him,  he  made  a 
sudden  bolt,  mounted  his  pony,  and  never  drew  bridle  till 
he  had  crossed  the  river  and  found  himself  in  the  adjoining 
county. 

Of  his  exploits  in  the  saddle  I  have  only  space  to  say 
here  that  he  won  three  Grand  Nationals,  of  which  more 
anon,  and  that  he  was  the  tutor  of  that  splendid  gentleman- 
rider  Captain  Little,  who  rode  Chandler  to  victory,  and 
who  was  on  that  famous  horse's  back  when  he  made  his 
world-renowned  record  jump  of  39  ft.  over  water  at 
Warwick  in  1848. 


CHAPTER  X 

JEM  MASON  AND  LOTTERY 

"  To  mention  the  Grand  National,"  says  the  author  of 
Steep lechasing  in  the  Badminton  Series,  "  is  at  once  to 
suggest  the  names  of  Lottery  and  Jem  Mason,  who  head 
the  list  of  winners."  'Tis  seventy  years  ago  since  that 
famous  pair  immortalised  themselves  at  Liverpool,  and 
their  memory  is  still  green  among  sportsmen.  I  have  met 
veterans  within  the  last  decade  who  saw  Jem  Mason  steer 
Lottery  to  victory  on  that  memorable  day,  and  who  stoutly 
maintained  that  neither  horse  nor  rider  has  ever  had  his 
peer. 

Jem's  father  was  a  horse-dealer  in  a  large  way  at  Stilton, 
in  Leicestershire,  and  the  lad  was  brought  up  among 
horses.  At  the  age  of  1 5  he  was  engaged  as  rough-rider  to 
Mr  Tilbury,  of  Dove  House  Farm,  near  Pinner,  one  of  the 
best-known  dealers  in  the  kingdom,  who  sometimes  had  as 
many  as  200  hunters  on  his  hands.  Jem  had  plenty  of 
practice  in  riding  to  hounds,  and  one  day,  when  he 
was  out  with  the  Hertfordshire,  Lord  Frederic  Beauclerk 
was  so  struck  with  his  riding  that  he  got  the  lad  to  ride 
The  Poet,  who  had  run  third  in  the  St  Leger,  in  the  St 
Albans  steeplechase,  which  was  then  the  leading  cross- 
country event  of  the  season.  The  Poet  had  to  carry  12  St., 
and  as  Jem  was  under  8  st.  he  had  to  carry  upwards  of 
4  St.  dead-weight ;  but  he  won  so  cleverly  as  to  convince 
good  judges  that  he  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  first-rate 
steeplechase  rider. 

It  was  just  after  this  steeplechase  that  Jem  Mason's 
connection  began  with  the  horse  which  is  as  closely 
associated  with  his  name  as  Black  Bess  was  with  Dick 
Turpin.     Lottery  was   bought   by  John    Elmore,  another 

94 


JEM   MASON   AND   LOTTERY        95 

famous  dealer,  at  Horncastle  Fair  in  1836.  He  was  a 
mealy  brown  colour,  narrow  and  short  in  the  quarters,  and 
anything  but  promising-looking ;  but  being  put  at  a  post 
and  rails  for  a  trial,  he  took  them  so  well  that  a  bystander 

said,   "The   could   jump    from    Hell   to    Hackney," 

and  thereupon  Elmore  gave  i^i20  for  him.  He  was  at  once 
handed  over  to  Jem  Mason,  who  schooled  him  daily,  but 
with  only  moderate  success.  It  was  the  turning-point  of 
Jem's  career ;  he  was  firmly  established  in  everybody's 
opinion  as  a  first-class  horseman,  and  only  wanted  the 
proper  mounts  to  lead  him  to  fortune.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  Mr  Elmore  was  just  then  in  want  of  a  jockey,  and 
gave  him  the  riding  of  the  best  steeplechase  horses  that 
money  could  buy ;  and  from  that  time  he  was  associated 
with  Beecher,  Olliver,  and  the  cream  of  the  cross-country 
talent. 

It  was  in  1838  that  Lottery  first  faced  the  starter.  St 
Albans  was  chosen  as  the  place  for  his  dehit,  and,  consider- 
ing that  he  was  amiss  at  the  time,  his  performance  in 
finishing  third  was  very  good.  Six  weeks  later,  Lottery 
took  the  Metropolitan,  winning  easily,  and  the  rest  of  the 
season  was  a  succession  of  victories.  But  his  grand  coup 
was  at  Liverpool  the  following  year.  When  he  came  to 
the  five-foot  stone  wall  at  the  end  of  the  first  two  miles, 
very  few  were  in  it :  Charity,  who  was  leading,  refused ; 
Railroad,  who  was  next,  went  at  it  beautifully;  Lottery 
and  The  Nun  followed,  the  former  taking  a  tremendous 
flying  leap,  but  The  Nun  nearly  unshipped  her  rider,  Alan 
Macdonough.  At  the  finish,  when  Mason  let  his  horse  go, 
the  race  was  never  in  doubt ;  so  fresh,  in  fact,  was  Lottery, 
that  over  the  hurdles  placed  for  the  run  home  he  cleared 
the  remarkable  distance  of  33  feet. 

To  Jem  Mason,  Lottery  brought  a  wife.  He  had  quitted 
Tilbury's  service  to  engage  with  Elmore,  and  fell  in  love 
with  one  of  the  latter's  daughters.  So  delighted  was  the 
old  trainer  with  the  young  fellow's  performance,  that  he 
gave  him  the  girl,  and  the  marriage  was  celebrated  forth- 
with. During  the  remainder  of  the  season  Lottery  carried 
everything  before  him  at  Maidstone,  Cheltenham,  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  and  elsewhere. 


96  SPORTING    STORIES 

Jem's  next  notable  feat  was  at  Dunchurch  in  1840,  when 
The  Nun,  again  ridden  by  Macdonough  (who,  next  to 
Tom  Ferguson,  was  esteemed  the  best  horseman  in  Ireland), 
made  a  tremendous  fight  with  him.  Some  distance  from 
the  winning-field  the  pair  were  in  front,  and  it  was  here 
that  Jem  gave  an  instance  of  that  wonderful  readiness  in 
availing  himself  of  the  advantage  of  a  situation  that  almost 
amounted  to  instinct.  As  they  approached  the  goal — with 
deep  ridge  and  furrow  before  them — his  quick  eye  told  him 
that  by  jumping  some  high  posts  and  rails  two  fields 
distant  he  would  be  able  to  ride  straight  up  the  furrows. 
This  he  did,  and  as  Macdonough  did  not  like  to  follow  with 
The  Nun,  who  was  a  slovenly  fencer,  the  mare  had  to  come 
floundering  across  the  ridge  and  furrow  in  the  last  field, 
and  was  beaten  in  a  canter. 

At  Liverpool,  the  following  year.  Lottery  had  his  first 
fall,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  and  his  old  adversary.  The  Nun, 
tumbled  over  the  wall  together.  The  latter  never  recovered 
the  shock,  and  Lottery  was  much  shaken.  Ill-natured 
people  said  that  Jem's  servant  was  just  behind,  with  his 
greatcoat,  ready  to  pick  his  master  up  ;  but  I  believe  this 
to  have  been  a  calumny,  and  that  the  cause  of  the  accident 
was  the  pace,  which  was  so  tremendous  that  the  horse  was 
really  blown. 

During  the  next  two  seasons  Lottery — always  ridden 
by  Jem — won  the  Metropolitan,  Dunchurch,  Leamington, 
Northampton,  Stratford,  and  Cheltenham  steeplechases, 
until  Mrs  Elmore  used  to  say  she  was  quite  ashamed  of 
going  about  the  country  and  carrying  away  the  money 
from  every  place. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  feat  performed  by  the  pair  was  at 
Cheltenham,  when  Lottery  had  to  carry  a  heavy  amount 
of  penalties,  and  meet  some  of  the  best  horses  in  England. 
"  Now,"  said  Elmore  to  Jem,  when  he  was  ready  to  start, 
"  you  have  no  chance,  but  send  the  old  horse  along,  and 
gallop  him  as  long  as  you  can." 

What  happened  I  will  give  in  the  words  of  an  old 
sportsman  who  saw   the  race : — 

"  I  was  standing  about  a  mile,  or  something  more,  from 
home,  where  they  had  to  go  in  and  out  of  a  road,  and  there 


JEM   MASON   AND   LOTTERY        97 

were  two  gates,  one  on  each  side,  between  the  flags.  What 
was  my  surprise  to  see  Mason,  who,  I  thought,  must  from 
the  weight  have  long  since  been  out  of  it,  coming  with  a 
strong  lead,  and  making  all  his  own  running,  Down  to  the 
gates  he  came,  and  bounded  over  them,  in  and  out  of  the 
road  like  a  football,  while  the  rest,  not  daring  to  take  the 
timber,  were  scrambling  at  the  fences ;  and  he  was  never 
caught,  but  went  on,  and  won  as  he  liked." 

Weight  had  evidently  little  effect  on  Lottery  when  in 
his  best  form,  and  so  confident  was  Jem  Mason  of  the 
superiority  of  his  horse  over  all  his  rivals  that  when  walking 
round  the  course  at  Dunchurch,  where  the  choice  lay 
between  a  strong  bullfinch  and  a  high  new  gate  off  a  fresh- 
metalled  road,  he  coolly  said  :  "  I  am  not  going  to  scratch 
my  face,  as  I  am  going  to  the  Opera  to-night,  but  I  shall 
go  forty  miles  an  hour  at  the  gate,  and  there  is  no  man 
in  England  dare  follow  me."  But  the  custom  of  handi- 
capping steeplechase  horses,  which  came  in  at  this  time, 
imposed  such  penalties  upon  Lottery  that  during  the  two 
years  longer  he  was  in  training  he  only  won  once — at 
Newport  Pagnel. 

The  next  two  horses  upon  which  Jem  Mason  dis- 
tinguished himself,  were  Jerry  and  Gaylad.  He  once  rode 
the  latter  for  two  miles  with  the  stirrup-iron  up  his  leg,  and 
when  he  came  in  to  weigh  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
he  could  be  got  out  of  the  saddle.  Gaylad's  great  match 
with  Crosby  over  four  miles  of  the  Harrow  country  was 
one  of  the  most  curious  things  in  steeplechasing.  During 
the  race  both  horses  were  not  less  than  four  times  reduced 
to  a  walk,  and  when  they  got  to  the  last  fence  neither  had 
a  jump  left  in  him.  The  friends  of  both  then  began 
pulling  down  the  fence  for  them,  and  Jack  Darby  boldly 
shoved  Gaylad  into  the  winning-field,  and  Jem  managed 
to  hold  him  up  and  walk  in,  greatly  to  the  chagrin  of 
Macdonough,  who  was  on  Crosby. 

Jem  was  always  ready  to  serve  a  friend  in  distress,  and 
having  received  a  confidential  communication  from  Tom 
Olliver,  who,  as  usual,  was  in  "  Short  Street,"  to  the  effect 
that  all  he  possessed  on  earth  was  Trust-me-not,  he  asked 
Jem  to  buy  the  horse,  that  he  might  be  able  to  get  rid  of 

7 


98  SPORTING   STORIES 

his  unwelcome  visitor  the  Sheriffs  officer.  "  Don't  you 
sell  your  horse,"  replied  Jem ;  "  send  him  to  me,  and  I'll 
win  the  race  for  you,"  and  the  advice  was  accompanied 
by  a  fiver  for  the  railway  fare.  So  Trust-me-not  was 
despatched  to  Harlesden  Green  and  entered  for  a  small 
steeplechase,  Jem  paying  the  stake.  The  horse  was 
brought  on  the  ground  with  a  terrific  bit,  which  Jem  at  once 
changed  for  a  double-rein  snaffle,  although  Tom  protested 
that  he  could  not  hold  the  horse  with  anything  less  formid- 
able than  the  original  bit.  "  Hold  your  tongue,  and  see 
your  horse  win,"  was  the  reply;  and  win  he  did,  to  the 
great  joy  and  relief  of  poor  Tom. 

There  were  critics  who  said  that  Jem  Mason's  seat  was 
too  far  back  in  the  saddle,  and  others  who  declared  that 
he  was  great  at  fences  and  ditches,  but  incapable  of 
making  the  most  of  his  horse  at  the  finish.  I  pin  my  faith, 
however,  to  the  verdict  of  his  great  rival,  Tom  Olliver,  who 
described  Jem  Mason  as  the  finest  horseman  in  England. 

Out  of  the  pigskin  Jem  was  a  bit  of  a  "  toff,"  always  well 
dressed  and  smart  in  appearance — looked  a  gentleman,  in 
fact,  and  indeed  behaved  himself  as  one.  His  last  ride  in 
public  was  for  Lord  Strathmore  on  Abd-el-Kader,  and  Jem 
always  maintained  that  if  the  horse  had  not  been  "  got  at " 
he  must  have  won.  Early  in  1866  Jem  began  to  suffer 
terribly  from  cancer  in  the  throat,  and  after  some  months 
of  suffering  he  died  in  the  October  of  that  year. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   HUMOURS   OF  TOMMY  COLEMAN 

No  record  of  steeplechasing  would  be  complete  without 
some  mention  of  the  genuine  but  eccentric  sportsman 
"Tommy"  Coleman,  Boniface  of  the  Chequers  Inn, 
St  Albans,  who  did  more  for  the  sport  than  any  man  of 
his  time.  There  are  countless  tales  told  of  Tommy,  a  few 
of  which  I  propose  retailing  here. 

No  one  whose  memory  goes  back  to  the  black  December 
of  1 87 1  is  ever  likely  to  forget  that  time  of  terrible  sus- 
pense, when  the  then  Prince  of  Wales,  our  present  King,  lay 
hovering  between  life  and  death.  In  connection  with  His 
Royal  Highness's  illness.  Tommy  Coleman  used  to  tell  the 
following  story,  and  triumphantly  adduced  it  as  a  proof 
that  the  Prince's  recovery  was  mainly,  if  not  entirely,  due 
to  the  adoption  of  his  (Coleman's)  suggestion.  Here  is  the 
yarn  in  Tommy's  own  words  : — 

"You  mind  that  sad  time  when  the  Prince  was  so  ill, 
and  not  expected  to  live,  and  the  papers  every  day  gave 
little  or  no  hope  of  his  recovery.  I  remember  the  time 
when  a  son  of  mine,  about  twenty-eight  years  old,  was 
attacked  with  a  severe  fever,  and  laid  up  for  some  time, 
attended  by  the  family  doctor,  and  at  last  we  had  a 
physician.  They  both  gave  him  up,  and  said  it  was  no  use 
attempting  anything  more.  I  said,  *  Pooh,  I'll  give  him 
some  good  sherry ' ;  and  I  gave  him  half  a  tumblerful,  which 
revived  him  at  once,  and  we  continued  to  give  him  sherry 
and  home-brewed  beer,  with  Scotch  oatmeal  gruel.  He 
rallied  and  got  well,  and  is  alive  now  and  over  fifty  years 
old.  In  such  cases,  where  people  have  been  living  well 
and  their  whole  system  is  full  of  animal  food  and  tainted 
with  fever,  by  giving  them  beef-tea  and  soups  you  feed  it. 

99 


100  SPORTING   STORIES 

In  these  cases  there  is  nothing  better  than  good  fruity 
sherry.  Well,  I  felt  so  anxious  about  the  Prince  that  1 
wrote  to  Dr  Jenner  at  once,  and  asked  him  to  let  the  Prince 
have  some  good  fruity  sherry,  home-brewed  beer,  and  oat- 
meal gruel ;  and  here  is  the  answer,  which  you  see  is  dated 
from  Sandringham  : — '  M.  M.  Hozman  has  been  desired  by 
Sir  William  Jenner  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  Mr 
Thomas  Coleman's  letter,  and  to  inform  him  that  his 
suggestion,  with  a  large  number  of  those  proposed  by 
others,  regarding  the  treatment  of  H.R.H.  the  Prince  of 
Wales'  illness,  will  be  laid  before  all  the  physicians  in 
attendance.'  Within  three  days  the  newspapers  said  that 
His  Royal  Highness  had  taken  some  sherry  and  home- 
brewed beer,  that  he  had  revived,  and  better  symptoms 
had  appeared." 

That  is  a  nut  for  the  teetotallers  to  crack. 

Tommy  Coleman  was  a  downy  old  card  ;  he  was  up  to 
every  move  on  the  board,  and  never  failed  to  look  after 
number  one,  as  the  following  story  proves.  He  had 
bought  for  a  song  a  vicious  brute  of  a  horse  with  a  mouth 
as  hard  as  flint,  but  a  splendid-looking  animal,  and  a 
demon  to  go,  for  he  ran  away  with  everyone  who  attempted 
to  mount  him.  A  Hunters'  Stakes  were  to  be  run  at 
Enfield,  and  Squire  Osbaldeston  had  signified  his  intention 
of  riding.  Now  Tommy  wanted  a  mare  named  Harriet  to 
win,  and  mounted  the  Squire  upon  the  hunter,  which  had 
the  misnomer  of  Sober  Robin.  "How  am  I  to  ride?" 
asked  Osbaldeston.  "  I  aways  ride  to  orders,  then  nobody 
can  say  I  ought  to  have  ridden  differently."  "Jump  off, 
set  the  others  going,  then  pull  Sober  Robin  gently  back," 
said  Tommy,  well  knowing  that  to  obey  the  first  part  of 
the  instruction  would  be  to  render  the  rest  impossible. 
The  moment  the  hunter  felt  the  spurs  he  was  off  like  mad, 
scattering  everything  right  and  left,  and  going  on  the 
wrong  sides  of  the  posts  half  a  dozen  times  over.  The 
consequence  was  that,  as  Tommy  had  foreseen,  Harriet 
was  declared  the  winner.  With  the  coolest  and  most 
brazen  effrontery  he  accosted  the  Squire,  who  was  foaming 
with  rage,  before  he  could  get  out  a  word.  "You  didn't 
ride  him  as  I  told  you,  sir."     "You  d d  scoundrel,  you 


HUMOURS    OF   TOMMY   COLEMAN    101 

nearly  broke  my  neck,"  roared  the  Squire.  "  I  thought 
you  were  a  horseman,"  answered  Tommy,  not  a  bit  abashed. 
"  I've  got  a  little  boy  at  home  that  can  ride  him  in  a 
snaffle  bridle,"  It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  add  that  it 
was  many  a  long  day  before  the  Squire  was  friendly  with 
Mr  Coleman  again. 

Another  time,  Tommy  had  backed  a  rich  young  fellow 
— a  patron  of  his — at  a  pigeon  match  against  Josh 
Anderson  the  singer.  Josh  was  a  crack  shot ;  the  other 
had  scarcely  a  chance  against  him.  Tommy  knew  this 
well  enough,  and  resorted  to  an  artful  dodge  to  give  his 
man  the  victory.  Josh  had  a  terribly  irritable  temper,  and 
the  slightest  thing  would  set  him  in  a  blaze.  Just  before 
the  match  commenced  Tommy  went  up  and  said,  "  I  say, 
Josh,  there's  a  chap  offered  to  bet  me  you'll  go  mad  in  a 
year.  Shall  I  take  him  ?  "  "  What  the  devil  does  he 
mean  ?  "  cried  Josh,  getting  hot  in  a  moment.  "  Well,  he's 
a  phrenologist,  and  says  he  can  tell  by  your  bumps ;  there 
he  is,  you  go  and  ask  him,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  quiet- 
looking  young  fellow,  a  farmer's  son.  Before  Tommy  had 
done  speaking,  Josh  was  demanding  of  the  astonished 
rustic,   "  What  have  you  to   say   about   my  bumps,    you 

d d  sweep  ?  "  and  stripping  off  his  coat  to  "  bump  "  him. 

An  explanation  ensued ;  but  the  explosion  of  temper  had 
spoiled  Josh's  hand  for  shooting,  and  the  other  won  the 
match. 

It  was  from  Tommy  Coleman  I  had  the  following  two 
stories,  which  I  do  not  profess,  however,  to  be  able  to  give 
in  his  own  racy  words  : — 

In  the  twenties  a  well-known  figure  on  all  the  Southern 
race-courses  was  a  notorious  individual  named  Bill  Cauty, 
who,  although  he  betted  with  the  "nobs,"  was  considered 
to  be  the  king  of  the  pickpockets.  If  anyone  he  knew  had 
his  watch  stolen,  Bill  would  undertake  to  get  it  back  for 
him.  On  one  occasion  the  famous  Samuel  George  Ford, 
the  great  financier  before  Padwick  came  out,  took  ;^7000 
in  his  pocket-book  to  Ascot,  which  sum  he  had  promised 
to  lend  Mr  Massey  Stanley.  He  offered  it  to  him  before 
the  races  began  ;  but  the  other,  being  much  engaged,  asked 
Ford  to  keep  it  for  him  until  the  race  was  over.     Ford  had 


102  SPORTING   STORIES 

a  horse  called  Quo  Minus  running  in  the  Stakes  ;  but  the 
crowd  was  so  dense  that,  after  seeing  him  saddled  and 
bridled,  he  could  not  reach  the  grand  stand,  and  had  to 
take  up  a  position  on  the  rails  among  the  mob.  At  the 
finish  his  horse  ran  in  neck  and  neck  with  another.  Just 
then  a  little  boy,  seemingly  in  a  great  state  of  excitement, 
jumped  up  on  his  shoulders  and  shouted,  "  Quo  Minus 
wins  !  Quo  Minus  wins  !  "  "  Get  down,  you  young  rascal," 
cried  Ford  ;  but  the  boy  clung  round  his  neck  for  a  moment, 
saying,  "  I  can't  see  down  there.  Hurrah !  Quo  Minus  is 
winning,"  then  jumped  off  and  disappeared.  The  next 
moment  Fred  missed  his  pocket-book.  It  was  gone,  and 
the  boy  too.  To  complete  Ford's  discomfiture.  Quo  Minus 
lost,  though  only  by  a  head.  While  looking  about  for  the 
thief  he  met  Lord  Chesterfield,  to  whom  he  related  his  loss. 
"Go  and  find  Bill  Cauty,  hedge  with  him,  and  I'll  take 
odds  you  get  your  pocket-book  back,"  was  my  Lord's 
advice.  Ford  lost  no  time  in  acting  upon  it,  and  soon 
found  the  man  he  sought.  "  You've  been  had,"  said  this 
new  Jonathan  Wild  before  he  could  speak.  "  Yes,  and 
Lord  Chesterfield  told  me  to  come  to  you.  Can  you  do 
anything  in  it  ? "  inquired  Ford.  "  Well,  you  must  give 
up  the  small  whitebait  fish  and  give  five  of  the  long-tailed 
ones  (meaning  five  ;^roo  notes),  and  I  will  try  and 
collar  the  remainder  for  you,"  was  the  answer.  Ford 
thought  the  blackmail  rather  heavy,  but  knew  it  was  that 
or  nothing,  and  struck  the  bargain.  Cauty  then  told  him 
to  go  next  morning  to  a  certain  pile  of  timber,  in  a  place 
which  he  described,  and  he  would  find  his  pocket-book. 
Ford  did  as  he  was  told,  and  there,  sure  enough,  he  found 
it,  with  all  its  contents,  minus  the  ;^500,  just  as  it  had  been 
taken  from  him.  The  worthy  Mr  Cauty,  not  long  after- 
wards, fell  into  a  trap  which  had  been  laid  for  him  by  a 
bank  in  St  James's  Street,  and  was  caught  making  off  with 
a  small  cash-box  purposely  left  within  his  reach.  He  was 
tried  and  transported,  and  ended  his  career  in  Botany  Bay. 
The  racing  parson,  as  a  rule,  has  not  been  a  favourite 
with  his  Bishop,  but  there  have  been  exceptions.  Years 
ago,  one  of  these  jovial  clerics,  having  departed  in  hot 
haste  immediately  after  the  sermon  one  Sunday  morning, 


HUMOURS   OF   TOMMY   COLEMAN   103 

the  clerk  gave  out  that  there  would  be  no  service  that  after- 
noon, the  parson  having  gone  to  Lewes  races.  These 
began  on  the  Monday,  and  as  the  parish  I  am  speaking  of 
was  in  another  county  and  railways  were  not  in  existence, 
he  could  not  wait  for  afternoon  service.  Some  busybody, 
being  shocked  by  this,  posted  off  to  the  Bishop  of 
Winchester,  and  with  a  long  face  complained  that  the 
parson  had  gone  to  the  races.  Instead  of  the  burst  of 
indignation  he  had  expected,  the  Bishop  said  very  quietly, 
"  And  what  of  that  ?  "  "  But  he  is  going  to  ride  !  "  said 
the  informer.  "Is  he?  Then  I'll  bet  you  two  to  one  he 
wins,"  was  the  quick  rejoinder. 

And  it  was  whilst  I  was  in  Tommy  Coleman's  company 
at  an  election  dinner  at  the  famous  Peahen  at  St  Albans 
that  I  heard  the  following  story  of  Tom  Hills,  huntsman  of 
the  "  Old  Surrey  "  :— 

One  evening  Tom  was  told  to  ride  to  Leadenhall  Market 
and  buy  the  finest  fox  he  could  find,  and  to  be  careful  of 
him,  as  there  were  to  be  many  crack  riders  out  next  day  at 
a  lawn  meet  handy,  and  sport  of  some  kind  must  be  a 
certainty.  Tom  did  not  like  the  job,  but  he  started  from 
the  kennels — then  at  Shirley — rode  to  London,  met  with 
the  object  of  his  inglorious  pursuit,  and  having  strapped 
him  gingerly  so  as  to  be  free  from  harm,  deposited  him, 
legs  upwards,  in  the  capacious  pocket  of  a  large  blouse 
which  he  used  for  conveying  cubs  into  any  part  of  the 
country  which  happened  to  be  short  of  foxes.  Cantering 
back  at  dead  of  night,  a  highwayman  stopped  him  on 
Streatham  Common,  and  seized  his  horse's  head  with  the 
familiar  greeting,  "Your  money  or  your  life."  "My 
money  ?  I'm  only  a  servant.  I  haven't  got  any,"  answered 
Tom;  "and  you  wouldn't  care  to  take  my  life,  surely?" 
The  ruffian  paid  no  heed  to  this  appeal,  but  presenting  a 
pistol  at  the  huntsman's  head  said,  with  an  oath,  "  No  lies ; 
look  sharp,  young  fellow,  or  I  shall  rattle  a  bullet  through 
you."  Tom's  presence  of  mind  did  not  forsake  him. 
"  Well,  we  won't  fall  out,"  he  said  ;  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  my 
life,  so  I  suppose  I  must  pay  for  it.  You'll  find  whatever 
of  value  I've  got  about  me  in  this  pocket,"  pointing  to  the 
one  in  which  the  captive  fox  was  reclining.     The  highway- 


104  SPORTING   STORIES 

man  thrust  in  his  hand,  and  the  next  moment  there  was  a 
yell  of  agony  as  a  set  of  sharp  teeth  met  in  the  flesh.  The 
pistol  dropped  from  his  grasp,  and,  with  a  blow  of  his 
heavily  loaded  riding-whip,  Tom  sent  the  bold  Turpin 
spinning  off  his  horse  ;  after  which  he  cantered  on  his  way 
rejoicing. 

Jem  Ward,  sometime  Champion  of  England,  used  to  tell 
a  somewhat  similar  story  of  a  trick  played  upon  a  police- 
man who  had  been  told  off  to  arrest  a  well-known  coloured 
pugilist  named  Sambo  Sutton  (Charles  Kingsley's  instructor 
in  the  noble  art),  who  was  under  articles  to  fight  Jem 
Ward's  brother  Nick.  The  zealous  officer  of  the  law  had 
received  information  that  Sambo  was  concealed  in  a  bin  in 
an  outhouse  on  a  farm.  He  crept  noiselessly  to  the  bin  in 
the  dim  light,  then  suddenly  flung  up  the  lid,  and  cried, 
"  I've  got  you,  my  lad  ;  come  out  peacefully,  or  I'll  give  you 
a  wipe  with  my  truncheon."  But  Sambo  made  no  sign, 
though  the  policeman  could  plainly  see  him  move  beneath 
the  sack  which  covered  him.  "  What !  you  won't  come  out, 
won't  you?  Well,  then,  I'll  lug  you  out."  And  with 
that  he  plunged  his  hand  into  the  bin.  Then  there  rang 
out  on  the  still  evening  air  a  blood-curdling  cry  of  agony, 
followed  by  a  succession  of  yells  which  finally  brought  the 
farmer  and  his  household  on  the  scene.  They  found  the 
policeman  piteously  looking  at  his  maimed  and  mangled 
hand  dripping  with  blood.  The  occupant  of  the  bin  was  a 
full-grown  badger  !  And  for  a  long  time  afterwards  the  cry 
of  "Who  nabbed  the  badger?"  was  sufficient  to  goad  into 
fury  even  the  best-tempered  member  of  the  police  force  in 
those  parts. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  RECORD  OF  CAPTAIN  BEECHER 

The  editors  of  the  Badminton  volume  on  Steeplechasing 
lament  their  inability  to  give  details  of  the  exploits  of 
famous  chasers  and  the  riders  with  whom  their  names  are 
associated.  Limitations  of  space  prevented  them  from 
utilising  much  interesting  material  which  lay  ready  to  their 
hands.  As  I  am  not  thus  hampered,  I  propose  to  give 
some  anecdotes  of  one  or  two  heroes  of  this  fascinating 
branch  of  sport,  I  have  already  written  of  Tom  Olliver, 
and  I  shall  devote  this  chapter  to  the  famous  gentleman 
rider  Captain  Beecher,  for  whom  Olliver  had  the  profoundest 
admiration. 

My  own  recollection  of  Captain  Beecher  as  I  saw  him  in 
1862,  a  couple  of  years  before  his  death,  is  that  of  a  short, 
thick-set,  sturdy  man,  with  bushy  beard  and  thick  grey 
locks — a  shrewd,  kindly,  rugged  face,  enlivened  by  small 
but  bright  and  penetrating  grey  eyes.  There  was  some- 
thing very  resolute  and  vigorous  about  his  bearing  even 
then,  which  was  quite  in  keeping  with  the  stories  told  of 
his  daring  in  the  saddle. 

He  had  served  with  Wellington  in  the  Peninsular  War — 
I  believe  in  the  Commissariat  Department — and  was  after- 
wards with  the  army  of  occupation  in  Paris.  When  the 
piping  times  of  peace  set  in  he  returned  to  England,  but  it 
was  not  until  the  year  1823  that  he  made  his  first  public 
appearance  in  cap  and  jacket.  The  famous  Tommy 
Coleman  of  St  Albans,  who  had  an  eye  like  a  hawk  for  a 
good  horseman,  spotted  Beecher,  and  then  commenced  the 
Captain's  brilliant  career  as  a  cross-country  rider. 

The  first  St  Albans  steeplechase  came  off  in  the  spring 
of   1829  ;   sixteen    started  from  Arlington  Church  to  the 

105 


106  SPORTING   STORIES 

Obelisk  in  Wrest  Park.  Coleman's  idea  of  a  steeplechase 
was  two  miles  out  and  two  miles  in,  and  keeping  the  line 
quite  dark  ;  so  he  concealed  men  in  the  ditches  with  flags, 
which  they  raised  at  a  given  signal  as  soon  as  the  riders 
were  ready.  Other  managers  liked  four  miles  straight,  and 
after  erecting  two  scaffold  poles  with  a  couple  of  sheets  to 
finish  between,  they  left  the  riders  to  find  their  line,  with 
no  further  directions. 

The  March  of  183 1  saw  the  St  Albans  steeplechase 
established  in  real  form,  and  the  carriages  and  horsemen 
poured  in  so  fast  that  there  was  quite  a  block  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town.  Tommy  Coleman,  in  blue  coat  and 
kersey  breeches,  proclaimed  martial  law  among  the  riders. 
They  saddled  at  his  bugle  call  in  the  paddock  of  his 
inn,  the  Chequers ;  came  out  of  the  yard  three  deep,  like 
cavalry  ;  and  marched  up  the  town.  If  their  general  caught 
one  of  them  peeping  over  the  hedges  he  was  down  on  him 
at  once,  Beecher  was  mounted  on  Wild  Boar,  and 
apparently  had  the  race  in  hand,  when  his  horse  fell  close 
to  home,  and  was  so  severely  injured  that  he  died  next  day. 
The  winner,  Moon-raker,  who  beat  a  field  of  eleven,  had 
been  bought  out  of  a  water-cart,  his  sinews  quite  stiff  with 
work,  for  £18. 

Beecher  had  had  one  narrow  escape  that  day,  but  his 
dangers  were  not  over.  The  demand  for  beds  in  the  town 
far  exceeded  the  supply,  and  Beecher  and  his  father  had 
not  long  retired  to  a  double-bedded  room  when  they  were 
aroused  by  a  furious  knocking  at  the  door.  "  Sir,"  said  an 
angry  voice,  "  you  have  my  bedroom,  and  I  insist  on  your 
vacating  it  at  once."  "  I  don't  move  out  of  this  to-night," 
replied  Beecher.  "  Then  you  are  no  gentleman,  and  I  shall 
insist  on  you  giving  me  satisfaction  in  the  morning."  "  All 
right,"  replied  the  sleepy  steeplechase  rider,  not  giving 
himself  the  trouble  to  pick  up  the  card  that  was  thrust 
beneath  the  door.  When  Beecher  rose  in  the  morning  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  his  visitor,  until,  in  the  coffee-room, 
he  was  confronted  by  a  round-faced  little  man,  who  in- 
quired what  he  had  to  say  for  his  conduct  last  night.  The 
Captain  quietly  replied  that  he  was  ready  to  give  the 
gentleman — who  was  a  lawyer — the  satisfaction  of  punch- 


RECORD   OF   CAPTAIN   BEECHER   107 

ing  his  head,  or  blowing  his  brains  out.  Upon  which  Six- 
and-eightpence  expressed  his  intention  of  seeking  a  friend, 
and  went  hectoring  away  to  Tommy  Coleman,  at  whose 
inn  the  scene  had  taken  place.  "  Well,  I'd  advise  you  to 
let  the  Cap'n  alone,"  said  Tommy,  with  a  grin.  "  He 
chucked  two  men  out  of  winder  yesterday,  and  as  for 
exchanging  shots  with  him,  you're  a  dead  man  if  you  try 
that  on ;  why,  bless  'ee,  he's  killed  three  men  already,  and 
if  you  go  out  with  him  the  coffee  won't  be  for  ^ou."  There 
was  a  fading  of  the  lawyer's  rubicund  complexion  after 
that;  yet  he  still  expressed  his  intention  of  finding  a 
second.  He  must  have  gone  very  far  afield  in  his  search, 
Tommy  said,  for  he  never  paid  his  bill. 

There  were  times,  however,  when  the  Captain  was  not 
over  particular  about  feather-bed  comfort.  One  winter's 
night  he  arrived  at  a  country  house  unexpectedly.  "  What 
the  devil  shall  we  do?"  the  host  exclaimed.  "We're  full 
up;  haven't  as  much  as  a  shake-down  to  give  you." 
"  Have  you    got   an  empty  stall    in   your   stables  ? "    the 

Captain  asked.      "  Yes  ;    but  my  dear  fellow "      "  All 

right,  I  have  made  myself  comfortable  under  worse  con- 
ditions." And,  with  a  good  truss  of  straw  and  plenty  of 
horse-cloths,  he  said  he  had  a  bed  fit  for  a  king. 

In  the  famous  match  between  Colonel  Charritie's 
Napoleon,  a  slow,  half-bred  horse,  but  a  magnificent 
jumper,  and  Squire  Osbaldeston's  Grimaldi,  for  ^looo 
a  side,  Beecher  rode  Napoleon  and  the  Squire  his  own 
horse.  At  St.  Albans,  Napoleon  had  been  nowhere  against 
The  Clown  ;  but  here  was  a  six-mile  course  over  a  stiff 
country,  and  the  river  Lem  to  swim.  The  Pytchley,  of  which 
the  Squire  was  Master,  met  at  Dunchurch,  and  a  regiment 
of  scarlet  coats  lined  the  Lem  side,  which  was  the  thirty- 
eighth  jump  and  sixth  from  the  finish.  Osbaldeston  was 
not  a  good  swimmer  ;  the  Captain  was.  But  when  they 
arrived  at  the  river,  both  went  in  headlong  and  dis- 
appeared. So  long  was  the  immersion  that  it  was  thought 
Napoleon  would  come  up  no  more ;  but  at  last  Beecher's 
cap  was  seen,  then  his  horse's  ears,  and  the  pair  floated 
down-stream,  Napoleon  fighting  against  it  with  all  his 
might,  yet  upon  landing  he  got  the  best  of  it  by  a  hundred 


108  SPORTING   STORIES 

yards ;  but  he  was  fairly  done  up,  and  a  wrangle  ensued. 
A  man  was  sent  back  to  see  if  the  Squire  had  gone  the 
right  side  of  the  flags.  "  You  had  better  send  for  the 
Coroner  for  me,"  said  Beecher,  whose  teeth  were  chattering 
with  cold.  Ultimately  the  stakes  were  drawn.  The  two 
competitors  rubbed  down  and  dressed  ;  then  they  went  out 
hunting  and  got  another  ducking  in  the  Lem. 

About  the  time  of  the  match  with  Squire  Osbaldeston, 
Beecher's  connection  with  the  famous  horse  Vivian  com- 
menced. Taken  out  of  an  Irish  car,  this  animal  originally 
belonged  to  Lord  Vivian,  and  from  him  passed  to  Captain 
Lamb,  who  gave  him  the  name  of  his  former  owner. 
When  Osbaldeston  challenged  all  the  world  with  Cannon- 
ball,  Beecher  had  never  seen  Vivian,  and  came  from  Market 
Harborough  to  ride  Vanguard,  but  in  the  end  he  was  put  on 
Lamb's  horse.  The  finish  was  up  a  steep  hill ;  but  Beecher, 
by  jumping  a  very  big  fence,  contrived  to  come  up  the 
incline  on  a  slant,  thus  saving  his  horse  at  the  finish,  and 
won  a  splendid  victory. 

A  month  later  the  Captain  again  found  himself  saddling 
Vivian  to  ride  against  the  Marquis  of  Waterford  on  Cock 
Robin  over  the  Harborough  country  for  i^iooo  a  side.  Cock 
Robin  was  thought  one  of  the  finest  hunters  Ireland  ever 
produced,  and  fenced  so  well  and  went  so  fast  that  he 
got  three  hundred  yards  in  advance.  For  once  in  his  life, 
however,  the  Marquis  had  a  "  prudence  fit,"  and,  in  trying 
to  avoid  two  big  jumps  which  Beecher  took,  got  stuck  in 
the  dingle.  The  Captain  saw  his  plight,  and,  following 
some  wheel-tracks  to  the  left,  kept  out  of  difficulties  and 
won.  The  Marquis  was  very  savage  over  his  defeat,  and 
said  he  was  beaten  by  the  better  horse.  *'  Very  good," 
said  Beecher  ;  "  I'll  change  horses,  and  race  you  the  whole 
distance  back."  The  Marquis,  however,  did  not  accept  the 
challenge.  This  was  the  first  of  many  trials  of  skill  be- 
tween these  magnificent  horsemen ;  but  the  Marquis  was 
as  good  as  an  annuity  to  Beecher,  who  almost  invariably 
came  off  the  winner. 

It  was  in  1839  that  Liverpool  began  its  Grand  National 
in  earnest.  Beecher  was  on  Conrad,  and  when  riding  at 
the  fence  with  double  rails  and  a  large  ditch  dammed  up 


RECORD   OF   CAPTAIN   BEECHER   109 

on  the  off-side,  the  horse  made  a  mistake  and  hit  the  rails, 
and  in  an  instant  the  Captain  was  over  his  head.  The 
place  is  called  Beecher's  Brook  to  this  day.  When  riding 
at  Waltham  Abbey  he  was  thrown  upon  his  stomach  on 
to  some  stubble,  yet  he  contrived  to  catch  his  horse, 
remount,  and  overtake  the  field  at  the  last  fence.  Yet 
such  was  the  severity  of  the  fall,  that  for  hours  he  lost  the 
power  of  speech. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  jealousy  of  "  the  amateur  " 
among  the  professional  jocks,  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
pooh-poohing  the  Captain.  "  Now  we'll  see  what  the 
gentleman  jock  can  do,"  said  a  very  confident  specimen 
once,  when  the  two  were  in  the  weighing-room.  What  the 
gentleman  did  was  to  drive  Master  Jock  into  a  furze  bush 
and  leave  him  there. 

Beecher  was  hale  and  hearty  to  the  last,  and  his  closing 
years  were  spent  in  affluence  and  comfort,  surrounded 
by  staunch  friends,  till  "the  common  lot"  befell  him, 
in  November  1864. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TIPS  FROM  STRANGE  SOURCES 

My  experience  of  sportsmen  has  convinced  me  that  most 
of  them,  especially  racing  men,  are  superstitious.  I  know 
a  man  who,  on  entering  the  great  Exhibition  of  1862  for 
the  first  time,  had  his  eyes  instantly  attracted  by  the  name 
Caractacus  in  gilt  letters  over  the  statue  of  that  chieftain. 
"  By  Jove,  that's  a  tip,"  said  he,  and  promptly  went  out  and 
backed  Caractacus  for  the  Derby.  A  former  landlady  of 
the  Old  Bell  in  Fleet  Street  used  to  tell  with  great  unction 
the  story  of  a  wonderful  tip  which  she  received  in  a  remark- 
able fashion.  She  was  a  very  keen  backer  of  horses,  and 
moreover  a  good  church-woman,  and  always  dragged  her 
reluctant  spouse  with  her  on  Sunday  morning  to  St 
Margaret's,  close  by.  One  Sunday,  on  their  return  from 
church,  she  said  to  her  husband,  "John,  did  you  pay  any 
attention  to  the  sermon  this  morning?  "  "  Can't  say  I  did, 
my  dear,  any  way  particular,"  replied  her  worse  half,  on 
whom  the  sermon  always  had  a  soporific  effect.  "  Don't 
even  remember  the  text,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  she  tartly.  John 
was  obliged  to  confess  that  his  memory  had  failed  to  retain 
even  that.  "  Ah ! "  said  his  wife  in  disgust,  "  you  lazy, 
sleepy  stupid,  you  never  have  your  ears  open  ;  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me  you'd  have  missed  the  straightest  tip  for  the 
Chester  Cup  that  ever  was  given."  "What's  that?"  ex- 
claimed her  astonished  spouse,  now  thoroughly  awake. 
"  Why,  what  did  the  parson  say — and  repeated  it  twice — 
but '  Vanity  of  Vanities,  all  is  Vanity.'  Now  Vanity's  at  10 
to  I  for  the  Chester  Cup,  and  my  money  goes  on  him." 
Well,  Vanity  won,  and  the  moral  is,  always  keep  awake 
during  the  sermon,  or,  if  you  can't  do  that,  at  any  rate  don't 
forget  the  text. 


TIPS   FROM    STRANGE   SOURCES    111 

The  odd  thing  is  that  whilst  backers  are  always  impressed 
by  these  accidental  tips,  they  often  hesitate  to  accept  those 
which  come  to  them  with  a  hundredfold  better  credentials. 
Here  is  an  old  sportsman's  account  of  how  he  suffered  from 
a  silly  refusal  to  avail  himself  of  a  really  good  "  tip "  for 
the  Derby.     I  give  it  in  his  own  words : — 

"  Once,  when  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  on  the  eve  of 
the  Derby,  I  left  the  house  and  strolled  into  a  bar  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street  for  my  glass  of  bitter,  when  I 
was  accosted  by  Charley  Boyce,  the  jockey,  whom  I  knew 
very  well.  After  some  conversation,  he  asked  me  what  I 
thought  would  win  to-morrow.  I  said,  '  Of  course,  the 
favourite,  Hobbie  Noble.'  He  replied,  '  I  can  give  you  the 
greatest  certainty  possible — your  horse  can't  win.  If  you 
take  my  tip,  you  will  put  a  fiver  on  Daniel  O'Rourke. 
You  may  depend  upon  it  he  will  be  the  first  past  the  post.' 
To  this  I  demurred.  He  said,  '  You  might  just  as  well  go 
home  with  ;^ioo  in  your  pocket  as  not.  You  can  get  20  or 
25  to  I  about  him,  and  if  you  won't  have  a  fiver,  have  just 
one  sovereign,  as  there  are  plenty  of  houses  near  here  that 
will  do  it.'"  (At  that  period  more  than  half  the  houses  in 
the  district,  whether  public  bars,  hairdressers,  tobacconists, 
or  confectioners,  were  betting  houses ;  and  it  was  the 
existence  of  these  places,  which  had  sprung  up  all  over 
London,  that  compelled  the  legislature  to  pass  the  Act  for 
the  suppression  of  list  betting.)  "  I  foolishly  refused  to 
take  Charley's  tip,  and  returned  to  my  friend's  house  at 
Roehampton,  where  I  was  staying — there  were  twelve  of 
us — and  we  agreed  to  have  a  sweep,  putting  down  los.,  viz. 
£$  for  the  first  horse  and  ^i  for  the  second.  Of  course  I 
drew  Daniel  O'Rourke.  Such  was  my  prejudice  against 
the  horse  that  I  sold  him  for  los.,  the  amount  I  had 
ventured. 

"  The  race  has  been  so  fully  described  that  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  say  more  than  that  Daniel  won,  ridden  by  Frank 
Butler;  an  unknown  horse,  Barbarian,  was  second;  Chief 
Baron  Nicholson  third  ;  and  Hobbie  Noble  fourth.  This 
was  indeed  a  sensational  Derby,  especially  as  to  the  second 
horse,  who,  if  he  had  won,  would  have  landed  an  unparal- 
leled coup.     I  heard  that  he  arrived  on  the  morning  of  the 


112  SPORTING   STORIES 

race  by  rail,  was  taken  out  of  the  horse-box  and  led  on  to 
the  course,  in  all  his  dust  and  deshabille  after  his  long 
journey  from  Ireland.  He  was  saddled,  his  jockey  mounted, 
and  he  was  not  even  recognised  except  by  his  owner  and 
friends,  and  started  as  an  unknown  competitor.  I  saw 
him  after  the  race,  and  thought  him  a  splendid  colt." 

This  gentleman  had  no  better  luck,  however,  on  another 
occasion  when  he  trusted  to  his  own  judgment  in  selecting 
the  winner  of  the  Blue  Riband.  "  At  one  of  the  meetings 
of  the  aristocratic  steeplechases  over  my  farm  at  Ayles- 
bury," he  writes,  "  after  the  stewards'  dinner  the  conversa- 
tion turned  on  the  Derby.  This  was  about  the  middle 
of  March,  and  I  was  asked  who  I  thought  would  win  the 
race.  I  replied, '  West  Australian,'  and  one  of  the  company 
offered  me  ^^50  to  £/ii^  against  him,  which  I  accepted,  when 

Captain  K ,  who  was  present,  said  I  was  foolish,  as  he 

would  lay  me  £60  to  £^^  which  I  booked.  The  horse  soon 
began  to  shorten  in  price,  and  about  a  fortnight  before  the 
race  had  advanced  to  $  to  i.  As  I  stood  to  win  £\\o 
to  ^8, 1  determined  to  make  myself  safe,  so  with  a  sporting 
parson  I  laid  £^Q  to  ^8  against  him,  so  that  I  stood  to  win 
£']0  to  nothing.  Needless  to  say,  West  Australian  won. 
I  was  so  delighted  that  on  the  following  Saturday,  on 
seeing  the  reverend  gentleman,  I  gladly  gave  him  a  cheque 
for  ^40.  But  I  never  from  that  day  to  this  received  my 
£\  10,  or  a  single  farthing  of  it,  so  that  my  banking  account 
was  £^0  to  the  bad.  I  then  determined  never  again  to 
stake  more  than  £'^  on  any  race,  and  I  have  kept  to  my 
determination." 

It  is  the  fashion  amongst  certain  folks  who  regard  all 
prophets  with  the  profound  contempt  which  the  late  Baron 
Martin  entertained  for  them,  to  speak  disparagingly  of  the 
"  training  intelligence  "  in  the  sporting  papers  as  "  rot,"  and 
of  the  men  who  supply  that  intelligence  as  worthless  hum- 
bugs. Some  years  ago  I  was  sitting  one  evening  in  the 
smoking-room  of  an  hotel  in  a  Midland  town,  when  the 
conversation  turned  upon  this  subject.  Nearly  everyone 
was  down  upon  the  touts  as  frauds,  except  one  old  gentle- 
man, who  told  us  the  following  remarkable  story : — 

"  I  was  at  Doncaster,"  he  said,  "  before  the  Leger  in  '38, 


TIPS   FROM   STRANGE   SOURCES    113 

and  outside  the  livery  stable  where  I  baited  my  horse  I 
saw  a  man  leaning  against  a  doorway.  He  had  an  unmis- 
takably horsey  look  about  him,  and  was,  I  suspected,  a  race- 
course loiterer.  Just  out  of  idle  curiosity  I  spoke  to  him. 
'Well,  who's  going  to  win  the  Leger?'  I  asked.  Without 
a  moment's  hesitation  he  answered,  as  glibly  as  if  he  were 
announcing  a  fact  that  could  not  be  disputed, '  Don  John, 
and  Ian  will  be  second.'  '  But  how  about  Cobham  ? '  (the 
first  favourite)  I  asked.  '  Cobham,'  he  answered,  in  the 
same  matter-of-fact  manner,  '  Cobham  will  break  down  at 
the  end  of  the  white  rails  opposite  the  Intake  Farm.' 
'  What  makes  you  so  cock-sure  about  it  ? '  I  inquired.  '  For 
these  very  good  reasons,'  he  replied.  *  Cobham  is  bad  in 
his  forelegs :  he  has  not  had  a  real  gallop  for  many  a  day. 
Besides,  he  is  as  fat  as  a  pig.  Now,  with  his  bad  forelegs 
and  the  weight  on  his  back,  he'll  never  reach  home.'  '  And 
what  makes  you  think  that  Don  John  is  so  certain  to  win  ? ' 
'  Because  I  have  watched  him  closely,  and  I  know  there's 
never  a  horse  in  Doncaster  can  go  with  him.  You  may 
put  that  down  as  gospel  truth.' 

"  I  was  struck  by  his  calm  assurance,  and  I  went  and 
backed  Don  John  for  as  much  money  as  I  could  spare. 
My  prophet  was  right :  Don  John  did  win,  and  Cobham, 
sure  enough,  did  break  down,  though  it  was  not  at  the  end 
of  the  white  rails,  but  nearer  home.  I  won  £yoo,  and 
determined  to  give  my  prophet  a  handsome  present  for  his 
excellent  tip.  But  I  could  not  find  him  ;  he  had  mysteri- 
ously disappeared,  and  I  did  not  see  him  again  for  many 
months.  When  I  did,  it  was  in  the  last  place  in  the  world 
I  should  have  expected  to  meet  him. 

"  I  was  crossing  Waterloo  Bridge  a  few  days  before  the 
Derby  of  1839,  when  I  ran  up  against  him.  I  recognised 
him  at  once,  and  told  him  that  I  had  to  thank  him  for 
pocketing  ^700  over  the  Leger.  As  he  had  no  urgent 
business  on  hand,  I  asked  him  to  come  with  me  to  a  quiet 
tavern  and  have  some  dinner.  He  consented.  When  we 
were  seated,  I  told  him  of  my  intention  to  remunerate  him 
for  his  tip,  and  begged  him  to  accept  a  ^20  note.  This 
he  absolutely  refused  for  some  time,  and  it  was  only  by 
insisting  on  it  that  I  forced  him  at  last  to  take  the  money. 


114  SPORTING   STORIES 

"  He  told  me  his  story  over  a  bottle  of  wine  after  dinner, 
and  a  very  melancholy  story  it  was.  I  won't,  however, 
trouble  you  with  it  now.  I  will  only  say  that  he  was  a 
man  of  good  family  and  had  been  educated  at  Cambridge, 
but  through  his  own  misconduct  had  come  to  grief.  We 
passed  on  to  the  Derby  prospects.  He  had  carefully 
watched  the  movements  of  every  horse,  and  he  assured  me 
that  Bloomsbury  must  win,  giving  excellent  reasons  for 
his  belief  Well,  as  you  know,  Bloomsbury  did  win,  and 
I  pulled  off  a  very  good  thing  indeed.  And  you  may  be 
sure  I  did  not  forget  my  faithful  tout. 

"  Once  more,  and  only  once,  was  I  tempted  to  ask  his 
advice  and  back  his  selection.  That  was  at  the  Doncaster 
Meeting  of  the  same  year.  He  gave  me  Charles  XII.  for 
the  Leger  with  the  same  positive  assurance  as  before. 
When  the  first  two  horses  passed  the  judge's  box  the 
general  impression  was  that  Euclid  had  won,  and  those 
who  were  in  a  position  to  see  declared  that  it  was  so.  But, 
to  my  gratification,  I  found  that  the  judge  had  given  it  a 
dead-heat  between  Euclid  and  Charles  XII.  I  shall  not 
easily  forget  the  intense  excitement  with  which  I  watched 
the  running  off  of  that  dead-heat.  It  was  a  near  thing, 
but  Charles  XII.  just  did  it,  and  once  more  I  landed  a 
large  stake — so  large  that  I  could  afford  to  give  my  tout 
a  douceur  of  iJ^ioo. 

"  After  these  three  coups  I  decided  that  it  would  be  rash 
to  tempt  Fortune  any  more.  With  the  money  which  I 
won  I  went  into  business,  and  how  I  prospered  some  of 
this  company  know  well.  I  never  saw  my  tout  after 
Charles  XII.'s  Leger,  though  I  was  several  times  both  at 
Doncaster  and  Epsom  afterwards ;  and  perhaps  had  I  met 
him  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  back  his  selection 
once  more.  But  I  have  never  forgotten,  and  never  shall 
forget,  that  I  owe  my  present  comfortable  position  to  a 
tout's  tips. 

This  anecdote  reminds  me  of  another  which  shows  that 
occasionally  a  man  may  meet  the  reward  of  a  kindly 
action  in  an  unexpected  manner.  A  certain  Captain 
Osborn,  having  backed  Running  Rein  for  all  he  possessed, 
and  more  to  boot,  found  himself  after  the  Derby  day   a 


TIPS   FROM   STRANGE   SOURCES    115 

ruined  man  if  the  objection  to  the  winner  were  upheld. 
As  he  was  walking  down  Regent  Street  a  boy  thrust  a 
note  into  his  hand  and  disappeared.  It  was  such  a  dirty 
scrawl  that  the  Captain  was  about  to  throw  it  away,  when 
the  name  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  read  as  follows : — 
"  Honnerd  Sur, — You  did  me  and  my  missus  a  good  turn, 
and  I  want  to  do  you  the  same,  Runnin'  Rein  is  a  him- 
poster,  and  he  won't  get  the  race.  I  noes  all.  Buy  all  the 
bets  you  can  on  Orlando,  and  you'll  make  a  fourtin'  but  no 
more  at  present  from  your  humble  servant,  A.  Simmons, 
formerly  your  helper  at  Crick."  The  Captain  recollected 
that  he  once  had  a  helper  of  that  name  in  his  stable,  and 
had  given  him  a  fiver  to  get  the  bailiffs  out  of  his  house. 
Thinking  there  might  be  something  in  the  tip,  he  started 
for  Tattersalls  and  there  bought  up  all  the  Orlando  bets 
he  could  get  hold  of — people  being  ready  to  part  with 
them  for  a  song,  and  no  doubt  wondering  how  any  man 
could  be  such  a  fool  as  to  take  them  at  any  price.  Every- 
body remembers  the  story  of  the  Running  Rein  fraud  :  how 
the  horse  proved  to  be  a  four-year-old  ;  and  how  Orlando, 
who  came  in  second,  was  declared  the  winner.  Well,  the 
upshot  was  that  Captain  Osborn  pocketed  i^i  8,000; 
and  you  may  be  sure  he  did  not  forget  his  faithful  old 
servant,  whom  he  made  comfortable  for  life. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  ROUT  OF  THE  THIMBLE-MEN 

To  the  present  generation  of  race-goers  the  thimble-rigger 
is  only  known  as  an  insignificant  item  among  the  motley 
crowd  of  camp-followers  that  dog  the  march  of  the  ever- 
moving  army  of  the  Turf.  It  is  only  in  odd  holes  and 
corners  that  he  ventures  to  ply  his  nefarious  trade,  and  he 
flies  at  no  higher  game  than  the  simple  bumpkin  or  the 
drunken  sportsman  of  Cockaigne.  But  it  was  far  other- 
wise at  a  time  which  some  veteran  sportsmen  still  living 
can  remember.  The  thimble-men  frequented  every  race- 
meeting  of  any  importance  in  large  gangs,  and  were  as 
desperate  a  set  of  ruffians  as  could  be  found  anywhere. 
Woe  betide  the  inebriated  sportsmen  who  fell  into  their 
hands  !  They  stripped  him  of  everything  he  had,  and 
often  maltreated  him  as  well.  It  was  more  by  artful 
dodges,  however,  that  they  earned  their  living  as  a  rule, 
and  it  seems  strange  that  the  race-goers  of  that  day,  who 
were  smart  enough  in  other  respects,  should  have  allowed 
themselves  to  be  so  openly  and  flagrantly  victimised. 

There  was  a  notorious  case  tried  in  1823  in  which  plenty 
of  evidence  was  produced  to  show  that  gentlemen  would 
often  stop  their  carriages  in  front  of  a  thimble-rigger's  table, 
get  out,  and  lose  twenty  or  thirty  pounds  in  a  few  minutes. 
There  was  a  certain  countess  who  never  could  resist  the 
temptation  to  prove  her  skill  in  detecting  the  pea  under  the 
thimble,  and  there  used  to  be  a  scramble  among  the 
thimble-men  at  Epsom  and  Ascot  to  secure  her  patronage. 
She  would  generally  continue  her  guessing  until  she  had 
lost  twenty  pounds — then  she  would  give  up  the  fascinating 
game.  And  yet  she  was  shrewd  enough  in  other  matters. 
She   was  never   known  to  make  a  bad  bargain  in  horse- 

116 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  THIMBLE-MEN    117 

dealing,  and  yet  she  was  infatuated  about  her  ability  to 
spot  the  pea  under  the  thimble. 

Tom  Buncombe,  the  one  time  Radical  Member  for 
Finsbury  and  cher  ami  of  Madame  Vestris — "  the  last  of 
the  Radical  gentlemen,"  as  James  Hannay  mournfully 
called  him — was  another  godsend  to  the  thimble-men, 
and  on  the  day  of  Cedric's  Derby  he  risked  guinea  after 
guinea  at  guessing  under  which  thimble  the  pea  was, 
until  he  had  lost  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty.  Yet 
*  Tommy '  was  no  fool ;  indeed,  he  was  generally  reputed 
to  be  about  the  cleverest  Member  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  The  late  Serjeant  Ballantine  tells  the  following 
story  of  him  : — 

There  was  a  certain  individual,  a  collector  of  some  portion 
of  His  Majesty's  revenue,  who  was  also  the  collector  of 
certain  "  leetle  bills "  bearing  the  signature  of  Thomas 
Slingsby  Buncombe,  signed  by  that  gentleman  before  he 
was  elected  for  Finsbury.  After  that  occurrence,  which 
exempted  him  from  arrest  for  debt,  it  was  found  very 
difficult  to  induce  Mr  Buncombe  to  take  up  these  promises. 
Having  exhausted  every  fair  means  to  get  his  money  back, 
Mr  Taxman,  in  a  fit  of  resentment,  hit  upon  a  foul  one. 
One  afternoon,  as  Tommy  was  making  his  way  towards  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  he  was  encountered  by  some  half- 
dozen  sandwich-men  advertising  the  fact  that  the  possessor 
of  certain  documents  bearing  the  signature  of  Thomas 
Slingsby  Buncombe  was  willing  to  dispose  of  them  to  the 
highest  bidder.  The  Honourable  Member  had  too  much 
experience  of  the  ways  of  angry  duns  to  be  much  dis- 
turbed by  this  public  expose^  and,  knowing  something  too 
of  his  creditor's  private  affairs,  had  a  rod  in  pickle  for  him 
besides.  So,  calmly  proceeding  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
he  took  the  first  opportunity  of  making  a  motion,  impelled, 
as  he  said,  by  the  interest  which  he  took  in  the  disposal  of 
the  people's  money,  for  a  return  of  such  of  the  King's 
taxes  as  had  not  yet  been  paid  over  by  the  collectors. 
The  motion  was  duly  seconded,  carried,  and  put  into  effect. 
This  sudden  call  proved  to  be  so  inconvenient  to  Tommy's 
creditor  that  he  had  to  seek  change  of  air  across  the  ocean. 
And  thus  did  our  patriotic  Member  fulfil  a  public  duty, 


118  SPORTING   STORIES 

earn  the  applause  of  his  electorate,  and  for  ever  get  rid  of 
those  troublesome  "  leetle  bills." 

Yet  this  was  the  man  who  was  fleeced  by  every  thimble- 
rigger  he  came  across.     One  can  only  say  with  Hudibras, 

"  Doubtless  the  pleasure  is  as  great 
Of  being  cheated  as  to  cheat." 

But  when  people  who  should  have  known  better  made 
such  fools  of  themselves,  it  was  not  surprising  that  the 
thimble-men  became  bold  and  defiant,  and  that  their 
impudence  increased  in  proportion  to  their  success. 

At  last,  however,  things  reached  such  a  pass  that  the 
Stewards  of  the  Doncaster  Meeting  resolved  to  put  down 
the  thimble-men  with  a  strong  hand,  and,  if  possible,  rid 
the  Northern  Meetings  at  any  rate  of  the  pest  which  had 
so  long  infested  them.  Accordingly,  the  Stewards  and 
the  public  authorities  of  the  borough  entered  into  an 
alliance  to  join  their  forces  for  the  suppression  of  the 
thimble-riggers.  By  some  means  or  other  the  thimble- 
men  became  aware  that  mischief  was  brewing,  and  they 
assembled  in  unusual  numbers.  So  far  from  being  dis- 
mayed, they  had  the  audacity  to  contemplate  meeting  force 
with  force.  There  was  every  prospect  of  an  exciting  fight, 
and  those  who  were  "  in  the  know  "  anticipated  some  very 
lively  proceedings. 

On  the  Monday  of  the  race  week  some  four  or  five 
hundred  of  the  thimble-men  took  possession  of  a  portion 
of  the  Town  Field  just  behind  the  rubbing-house,  set  up 
their  tables,  and  assumed  a  very  menacing  attitude.  The 
police  force,  though  doubled,  was  no  match  for  such  a 
compact  array  of  desperate  scoundrels  ;  and,  besides,  the 
Stewards  and  the  borough  authorities  had  not  quite 
matured  their  plans ;  so  the  thimble-men  were  left  un- 
molested for  that  day.  Meanwhile  the  Magistrates  took 
fresh  precautions.  A  troop  of  the  3rd  Dragoons  was 
ordered  up  from  Sheffield,  and  directed,  on  its  arrival,  to 
take  up  a  concealed  position  near  the  race-course ;  a 
company  of  the  3rd  West  York  Militia  were  placed  under 
arms ;  and  the  Doncaster  troop  of  Yeomanry  were  ordered 
to  hold  themselves  in  immediate  readiness. 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  THIMBLE-MEN    119 

On  Tuesday,  an  hour  before  the  races  commenced,  the 
first  attack  was  made  upon  the  thimble-men.  Lord 
WharncHffe,  Lord  Milton,  and  several  neighbouring  Magis- 
trates, accompanied  by  a  strong  body  of  their  servants 
mounted  and  armed  with  hunting-whips,  made  a  raid  upon 
the  tables.  Contrary  to  expectation,  only  a  feeble  resistance 
was  offered  ;  the  thimble-men  were  dispersed  without 
much  trouble,  but  no  arrests  were  made.  Early  on 
Wednesday  morning,  the  burghers  of  Doncaster  were 
roused  by  the  tramp  of  marching  men,  and  saw  the  thimble- 
men,  numbering  now  some  seven  hundred  at  least,  parading 
the  streets.  They  had  learned  overnight  that  troops  had 
been  sent  for  to  disperse  them,  and  they  were  intensely 
exasperated.  It  was  clear  that  they  meant  fighting,  and 
that  the  Stewards  and  the  Magistrates  would  find  it  no 
child's  play  to  drive  them  from  the  course.  Before  noon 
they  had  occupied  their  old  position  on  the  Town  Field  ; 
moreover,  they  had  fastened  and  barricaded  the  field-gate 
adjoining  the  rubbing-house,  and  collected  formidable 
heaps  of  stones  to  serve  as  missiles  against  their  assailants. 
Public  feeling  was  roused  to  an  intense  pitch  of  excitement 
by  these  deliberate  preparations  for  battle  on  the  part  of 
the  thimble-men.  The  races,  the  favourites,  the  state  of 
the  odds — all  were  for  the  moment  forgotten  in  the  stirring 
prospect  of  a  melee  on  a  large  scale. 

The  Mayor,  the  Magistrates,  and  the  Stewards  met  in 
solemn  conclave  to  decide  upon  their  operations.  The 
thimble-men  were  known  to  be  reckless,  revengeful,  and 
desperate,  and  it  was  therefore  necessary  to  exercise  caution 
in  attacking  them.  It  was  resolved  not  to  call  out  the 
Dragoons  or  Yeomanry  unless  it  were  absolutely  necessary 
to  do  so.  The  Mayor  marshalled  the  police — one  hundred 
strong ;  the  Stewards — Lord  Wharncliffe,  Lord  Milton, 
Lord  Downe,  the  Hon.  D.  Buncombe,  M.P.,  Mr  George 
Savile  Foljambe,  Mr  Beckett  Denison  (afterwards  Chairman 
of  the  Great  Northern  Railway) — supported  by  several  of 
the  neighbouring  gentry,  headed  their  own  mounted 
servants,  sixty  in  number,  and  the  combined  forces,  horse 
and  foot,  advanced  upon  the  field-gate.  They  found  it 
strongly  barricaded,  and  behind  the  barricade  they  could 


120  SPORTING   STORIES 

see  the  big  heaps  of  stones  and  the  thimble-men  arming 
themselves  with  the  legs  of  their  tables,  very  handy  and 
effective  weapons  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight.  Hoots  and 
yells  began  to  fill  the  air.  The  spectators,  clustered  upon 
the  Grand  Stand  and  every  available  coign  of  vantage,  began 
to  get  nervous,  and  a  very  serious  riot  seemed  impending. 

The  leaders  of  the  attacking  forces  consulted  together, 
and  it  was  resolved  to  try  to  effect  an  entrance  to  the 
Town  Field  by  a  smaller  opening  opposite  the  back  of  the 
Grand  Stand.  Simultaneously  with  this  strategic  move- 
ment of  the  mounted  men,  the  police  made  a  determined 
assault  upon  the  field-gate.  But  whilst  the  thimble-men 
were  engaged  in  front  they  left  their  rear  exposed  ;  a  party 
of  mounted  men  took  them  in  the  flank,  and  another  in  the 
rear.  The  barricade  was  broken  down,  and  there  was  a 
hot  fight  for  a  few  minutes  ;  sticks  and  stones  were  flying 
in  all  directions,  but  a  well-timed  charge  settled  the 
business.  The  thimble-men  broke  and  fled.  Several  of 
the  ring-leaders  were  captured  on  the  spot ;  the  rest  made 
for  the  open  country. 

And  then  came  the  amusing  part  of  the  scene.  The 
horsemen  gave  chase  to  the  nimble  fugitives.  Lord  Milton 
and  the  grooms  and  hunt  servants  from  Wentworth  were 
conspicuous  in  the  pursuit.  They  kept  well  together, 
took  the  fences  in  splendid  style,  and  brought  their  game 
to  hand  in  most  sportsman-like  fashion.  The  gardens 
behind  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  Institution  afforded  good 
cover  to  the  hunted  thimble-men,  but  they  were  hustled 
out  in  fine  style.  In  vain  they  doubled  and  dodged,  hid 
in  ditches,  and  crawled  through  fences.  No  fence  or  ditch 
could  stop  the  gallant  sportsmen  who  were  chasing  them. 
By  this  time,  too,  the  spectators,  finding  the  thimble-men 
were  getting  the  worst  of  it  and  that  there  was  not  much 
chance  of  having  their  own  skins  hurt,  bravely  joined  in 
the  fun,  and  helped  to  catch  the  flying  thieves.  Such  a 
scene  of  excitement  and  diversion  was  never  witnessed  on 
a  race-course  before  or  since.  Finally,  when  the  victors 
gathered  to  count  up  the  spoils,  they  found  that  they  had 
taken  some  hundred  and  fifty  prisoners.  A  big  caravan 
was  chartered,  and  the  captives   were  sent   off  in  relays 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  THIMBLE-MEN   121 

under  strong  escort  to  the  borough  gaol.  They  were 
brought  up  two  days  later  before  the  magistrates,  and 
committed  to  Wakefield  House  of  Correction  for  more  or 
less  lengthy  terms  of  hard  labour. 

Such  was  the  rout  of  the  thimble-men,  the  story  of 
which  I  have  heard  from  the  lips  of  those  who  took  part 
in  it,  among  them  that  famous  huntsman  of  the  Fitzwilliam 
hounds,  Tom  Sebright.  The  thimble-men  never  held  up 
their  heads  after  that.  Their  ring  was  completely  broken. 
Isolated  gangs,  indeed,  continued  for  some  time  to  prowl 
about  the  Southern  race-courses,  but  as  a  regular  organisa- 
tion of  audacious  robbers  they  were  crushed  out. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PRECOCITY  IN  THE  SADDLE 

I  HAVE  heard  it  stated,  on  good  authority,  that  Fred 
Archer  rode  well  to  hounds  at  the  age  of  seven,  and 
that  he  won  a  long  steeplechase  at  Bangor  when  he  was 
thirteen. 

Mr  George  Thompson  too,  the  noted  gentleman  rider, 
from  a  boy  had  an  almost  intuitive  knowledge  of  riding, 
and  at  eight  years  old  would  follow  his  father  across 
country  on  a  spirited  little  pony.  While  he  was  still  a 
mere  child,  his  father  matched  a  pony  called  Maid  of 
Skelgate  against  a  certain  gentleman's  hack,  catch-weights, 
half  a  mile,  each  to  ride  his  own.  On  going  down  to  the 
start,  Mr  Thompson  senior  discovered  that  a  jockey  boy 
who  was  in  Scott's  stables  was  preparing  to  ride  his 
opponent's  horse.  Against  this  he  remonstrated,  as  he 
understood  the  conditions  were  "  owners  up."  When, 
however,  the  articles  were  looked  through,  it  was  discovered 
that  this  stipulation  had  been  omitted,  and  Thompson's 
opponent  openly  boasted  that  he  had  got  the  best  of  the 
match,  as  Thompson  weighed  over  1 1  St.,  and  the  jockey 
under  7  st.  Thompson  rode  off  to  his  carriage,  where  his 
wife  and  family  were  seated,  and  said  to  her,  "  Hand  me 
out  George;  I  am  too  heavy."  And  the  next  moment  the 
little  fellow  was  put  out  and  mounted  on  Maid  of  Skelgate. 
As  he  cantered  with  his  father  down  to  the  post,  without 
boots  or  breeches,  showing  his  little  red  legs  and  trousers, 
he  was  loudly  cheered.  "What  am  I  to  do,  papa?"  he 
asked.  "  Why,  hold  your  reins  tight,  and  directly  they 
say  '  Go '  come  home  as  fast  as  you  can."  He  obeyed 
these  simple  instructions  to  the  letter,  and  won  in  a  canter, 
after  which  he  was  put  back  in  the  carriage.     At  this  time 


PRECOCITY    IN    THE    SADDLE     123 

his  weight  was  within  a  pound  of  3  st.,  so  that  he  was  prob- 
ably the  lightest  jockey  that  ever  rode  in  public. 

"  Little "  Kitchener,  Lord  George  Bentinck's  famous 
feather-weight  jockey,  was,  of  course,  the  lightest  profes- 
sional ever  known  ;  and,  if  I  remember  rightly,  he  could 
ride  3  st.  7  lbs.  George  Fordham  in  his  early  days  rode, 
however,  nearly  as  light.  He  first  made  his  mark  by 
winning  the  Cambridgeshire  of  1852  on  Little  Daniel  for 
Mr  Smith,  in  a  field  of  thirty-nine,  weighing  only  3  st. 
12  lbs.  George's  mount  stood  at  33  to  i  at  the  start; 
but  he  not  only  won,  but  Little  Daniel  ran  right  away  with 
him  into  the  town  before  he  could  be  stopped.  It  was  a 
great  triumph  for  the  youngster,  but  his  master  thought  it 
was  sufficiently  rewarded  by  a  present  of  a  Bible  and  a 
gold-headed  whip.  On  the  whip  were  engraved  the  words, 
"  Honesty  is  the  best  policy,"  and  to  that  motto  George  kept 
sternly  true  all  through  his  splendid  career  as  a  jockey. 
Two  years  later,  in  1854,  Fordham  won  the  Chester  Cup  on 
Captain  Douglas  Lane's  Epiminondas,  beating  twenty-four 
others  at  4  st.  10  lbs. ;  and  it  was  his  riding  on  that  occasion 
that  drew  from  the  bookmaker  "  Leviathan "  Davis  the 
remark,  "That  lad  is  the  best  light-weight  I  have  ever 
seen."  Frank  Buckle  is  said  to  have  ridden  under  4  st. 
when  he  commenced  his  career  in  the  Hon.  Richard 
Vernon's  stables  ;  and  the  elder  Sam  Chiffney,  who  could 
ride  7  st.  12  lbs.  to  the  last  day  of  his  life,  is  said  to  have 
ridden  under  4  st.  when  a  lad.  Fred  Archer,  on  the  other 
hand,  never  rode  lighter  than  5  st.  6  lbs.,  at  which  weight 
he  won  the  Cesarewitch  of  1872  on  Mr  J.  Radcliffs 
Salvanos. 

For  precocity  in  horsemanship  the  present  Lord 
Lonsdale  would  be  hard  to  beat,  for  he  hunted  "  on  his 
own  hook"  when  he  was  but  five  years  old.  And  the 
famous  Captain  John  White,  one  of  the  finest  horsemen  of 
his  day,  either  with  hounds  or  on  the  flat,  commenced  his 
career  in  the  saddle  about  the  same  age,  on  a  pony  so 
small  that,  to  quote  his  own  words,  "  with  the  saddle  on 
him  he  used  to  walk  under  a  leaping-bar  at  home,  and 
he  afterwards  galloped  over  it."  Charles  James  Apperley, 
well  known  as  "  Nimrod,"  tells  us  that  he  rode  to  hounds 


124  SPORTING   STORIES 

in  "  full  hunting  rig  " — velvet  cap  and  scarlet  coat — before 
he  was  twelve,  and  drove  a  coach  and  four  when  he  was 
but  a  year  older. 

Scarcely  less  precocious  was  the  great  Thomas  Assheton 
Smith,  whom  Napoleon  introduced  to  his  staff  as  le  premier 
chasseur  d' Angleterre.  While  he  was  yet  a  schoolboy  the 
fame  of  his  skill  and  daring  in  the  saddle  had  spread  pretty 
far,  as  the  following  anecdote  will  show.  One  day  his 
father  was  at  his  club  in  London  among  a  party  of  sports- 
men, who  were  speaking  of  the  splendid  horsemanship  of 
Sir  Henry  Payton  and  his  son.  "  There  isn't  another 
father  and  son  in  the  kingdom  who  could  beat  them !  " 
exclaimed  one  enthusiast.  Whereupon  Thomas  Assheton 
Smith  the  elder  quietly  remarked,  "  I  will  back  a  father 
and  son  against  them  for  ^500."  "  Name !  name !  "  cried 
half  a  dozen  voices.  "  I  am  one,  and  my  son  Tom  the 
other,"  was  the  reply.     No  one  took  the  bet. 

Sir  Richard  Sutton,  one  of  the  grandest  all-round  sports- 
men of  the  nineteenth  century,  whose  prowess  in  the 
hunting-field  was  only  equalled  by  his  skill  in  the  stubbles 
and  the  pheasant  coverts,  was  entered  to  hounds  by 
"  Squire  "  Osbaldeston  at  the  age  of  ten,  and,  mounted  on 
Tom  Sebright's  grey  pony,  showed  his  mettle  with  the 
Burton  in  a  way  that  gladdened  his  famous  mentor. 

Tom  Sebright  himself,  by  the  way,  whose  name  is 
inseparably  associated  with  the  Fitzwilliam  hounds,  was 
entered  at  the  age  of  fifteen  as  second  whip  with  "  Jack  " 
Musters,  who  at  once  noted  his  firm  hand  and  quick  eye  to 
hounds.  It  was  early  to  begin  the  active  duties  of  the 
hunting-field,  but  others  have  begun  even  earlier.  Jem  Hills, 
for  example,  afterwards  the  famous  huntsman  of  the 
Heythrop,  who  was  only  ten  when  he  commenced  whipping- 
in  to  the  Duke  of  Dorset's  harriers,  and  George  Carter, 
who  for  more  than  forty  years  carried  the  horn  with  the 
Fitzwilliam,  was  also  but  ten  when  he  was  installed  as 
second  whip  to  Mr  Selby  Lowndes's  hounds.  Will  Dale, 
successively  huntsman  of  the  Fitzwilliam,  the  Brocklesby, 
and  the  Duke  of  Beaufort's,  made  his  d^but  in  the  hunting- 
field  at  the  age  of  ten,  when  he  helped  to  turn  hounds 
to  his  father,  who  hunted  the  Surrey  Union  ;  and  he  was 


PRECOCITY   IN   THE   SADDLE     125 

only  thirteen  when  he  left  home  to  begin  life  as  whipper- 
in  to  Mr  Johnson's  harriers  in  Lincolnshire. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  great  horsemen  have  given  no 
promise  of  future  prowess  in  the  saddle  in  their  boyhood. 
The  present  Earl  Spencer,  "one  of  England's  hardest 
riders,"  was  a  timid  and  nervous  child,  who  dreaded 
mounting  his  pony,  even  with  the  hand  of  his  governess  to 
cling  to,  and  developed  no  taste  for  hunting  till  he  was  at 
Cambridge. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FOUL  RIDING  AND  FOUL  PLAY 

There  were  one  or  two  glaring  cases  of  foul  riding  not 
long  since  both  on  the  English  and  Continental  Turf 
which  provoked  the  parrot  cry  that  racing  was  going  to  the 
dogs — that  the  morals  of  the  Turf  were  rotten  and  so  forth. 
Of  course,  like  everything  else,  the  Turf  is  not  perfect,  but 
it  is  much  better  than  it  used  to  be.  Let  me  give  a  few 
instances  of  what  foul  riding  was  in  "  the  good  old  days  " 
of  which  so  much  rubbish  is  written. 

In  the  days  when  the  York  Summer  Meeting  was  one  of 
the  greatest  events  of  the  year,  Mr  Childers's  brown  mare 
Duchess,  ridden  by  Robert  Hesselteine,  ran  a  very  severe 
and  punishing  race  for  the  Gold  Cup  with  Mr  Pierson's  brown 
horse  Foxhunter,  ridden  by  Stephen  Jefferson.  Those 
were  times  when  jostling  and  cannoning  were  regarded  as 
perfectly  legitimate  means  of  besting  a  rival.  On  this 
occasion  Hesselteine  bored  Foxhunter  nearly  into  the  cords 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  journey,  and  Duchess  was  thus 
enabled  to  gain  the  judge's  verdict  by  a  length.  But  no 
sooner  had  Hesselteine  pulled  up  than  Jefferson  rode 
alongside  of  him  and  struck  him  across  the  face  with  his 
whip.  Hesselteine  returned  the  compliment,  and  they  cut 
away  at  one  another  amidst  the  cheers  of  the  bystanders, 
till  the  blood  was  streaming  down  their  faces.  When  both 
were  exhausted,  the  owner  of  Foxhunter  claimed  the  race 
on  the  ground  that  his  horse  had  been  deliberately  run 
up  against  the  cords  by  Duchess's  jockey.  A  committee 
of  "tryers"  was  empanelled  to  consider  the  objection,  and, 
after  mature  deliberation,  awarded  the  race  to  Foxhunter. 

Strong  words  were  exchanged  between  the  two  owners, 
which  must  infallibly  have  ended  in  a  duel  had  not   the 

126 


FOUL   RIDING   AND   FOUL   PLAY  127 

friends  of  both  parties  interfered  and  suggested  that  the 
heat  should  be  run  again.  It  was  run,  and  Duchess  won 
by  a  clear  length.  But  so  far  was  the  result  from  satisfy- 
ing either  owner  that  both  claimed  the  prize :  the  owner  of 
Duchess,  on  the  ground  that  his  mare  had  won  the  deciding 
heat ;  the  owner  of  Foxhunter,  on  the  ground  that  Duchess, 
having  once  been  disqualified  by  the  "tryers,"  was  not 
entitled  to  run  again.  There  were  mutual  charges  of  foul 
riding  and  foul  play  ;  the  jockeys  had  another  set-to,  this 
time  on  foot,  which  ended  in  the  discomfiture  of  Hesselteine  ; 
whilst  a  challenge  passed  between  the  owners,  with  the 
result  that  the  next  morning  Mr  Pierson  got  a  pistol-bullet 
in  the  thigh,  which  lamed  him  for  life. 

A  similar  incident  happened  in  the  case  of  the  two  famous 
jockeys  Sam  Chiffney  the  elder  and  Dick  Goodisson.  Each 
accused  the  other  of  deliberate  jostling  in  a  race.  From 
words  they  came  to  blows,  and  slashed  at  one  another  with 
their  whips.  But  as  nothing  but  a  fight  would  let  out  the 
bad  blood  between  them,  they  agreed  to  have  it  out  with  fists 
for  a  stake  of  25  guineas  a  side,  according  to  the  rules 
of  the  Prize  Ring.  Both  went  into  training  under  the 
ablest  pugilists  of  the  day,  and  in  due  course  faced  one 
another  inside  a  roped  ring  before  a  select  aristocratic 
assembly  in  a  room  in  the  Duke  of  Oueensberry's  house  at 
Newmarket.  The  battle  was  long  and  desperate.  Both 
were  game  to  the  backbone,  and  it  was  only  after  an  hour 
of  fierce  and  furious  fighting  that  Goodisson's  superior 
stamina  gave  him  the  victory.  The  fight,  however,  had 
the  desired  effect :  it  let  the  bad  blood  out  of  both  men. 
From  that  time  forward  they  were  good  friends,  and  their 
rivalry  in  the  saddle  was  manly  and  generous. 

Even  in  far  later  days  there  was  a  recklessness  and 
ferocity  tolerated  in  racing  which  would  raise  a  storm  of  in- 
dignation nowadays.  Take,  as  an  example,  the  great  match 
between  Lord  Kennedy  and  Captain  Ross,  Lord  Kennedy 
backed  Captain  Douglas  on  Radical  against  Captain 
Ross  on  Clinker  over  four  miles  of  Leicestershire  hunting 
country  for  ;^iooo  a  side.  "The  night  before  the  race," 
says  Captain  Ross,  "  Lord  Kennedy  wrote  me  a  note, 
stating   that   he   wished    very  much  to  see  me   about  an 


128  SPORTING   STORIES 

important  point  connected  with  next  day's  race.  I  met 
him,  and  he  said  that,  as  such  an  enormous  sum  was 
pending  on  the  match,  we  ought  to  start  with  as  few  open- 
ings for  a  wrangle  as  possible  ;  that  in  a  flat-race  cross- 
ing or  jostling  was  not  allowed,  but  that  to-morrow  he 
thought  it  would  be  best  that  we  should  do  just  as  we 
pleased.  '  In  short,'  I  replied, '  I  understand  that  we  may 
ride  over  each  other  and  kill  each  other  if  we  can.  Is  it 
so?'  'Just  so,'  was  his  Lordship's  answer.  Oddly  enough, 
the  first  jump  was  a  five-barred  gate.  I  lay  with  Clinker's 
head  about  opposite  to  Douglas's  knee.  When  within, 
say,  forty  or  fifty  yards  of  the  gate,  I  saw  clearly  that 
Radical  meant  to  refuse,  and,  recollecting  last  night's 
bargain,  I  held  Clinker  well  in  hand.  Radical,  as  I 
expected,  when  close  to  the  gate,  turned  right  across 
Clinker.  I  stuck  the  spurs  in,  knocked  Douglas  over  the 
gate,  and  sent  Radical  heels  over  head,  and  lying  on  this 
side  of  it.  Douglas  did  not  lose  his  horse — his  reins  were 
fastened  to  his  wrist — and  he  was  soon  up  again  and  mounted; 
but  it  finished  the  match  effectually.  I  turned  round, 
jumped  the  corner  of  the  fence,  and  gained  such  a  lead  that 
he  never  got  near  me  again.  I  suppose  in  these  days  kill- 
ing a  man  in  that  way  would  be  brought  in  *  Wilful  Murder.' 
Not  so  in  1826:  the  verdict  would  have  been  'Justifiable 
Homicide !" 

I  remember,  once,  at  Bromley  Steeplechases  seeing  a 
very  dastardly  outrage  perpetrated  on  Charles  Lawrence, 
the  cross-country  jockey.  He  was  struck  in  the  face  by  a 
brick  flung  by  a  rufiian,  no  doubt  paid  to  do  it,  and  was 
felled  like  an  ox.  When  Lawrence  recovered  conscious- 
ness, he  said  bitterly,  "  He  might  have  saved  himself  the 
trouble.  I  was  the  worst  of  the  four  that  started,  and 
could  not  have  won  anyhow,  bar  accidents."  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  the  blackguard  who  flung  the  brick  escaped, 
and  the  outrage  was  never  brought  home  to  anyone. 

There  were  some  queer  scenes  in  the  hunting-field  years 
ago,  when  the  whip  occasionally  played  the  part  I  have 
described  it  as  playing  in  the  hands  of  some  old-time 
jockeys.  Dick  Christian,  the  famous  rough-rider,  used  to 
tell  a  story  of  how  he  and  Bill  Wright  got  on  bad  terms 


FOUL   RIDING   AND   FOUL   PLAY   129 

through  a  misunderstanding ;  Bill  believing  that  Dick 
had  been  finding  fault  with  a  horse  the  other  was  trying 
to  sell.  I  will  give  the  anecdote  in  Dick's  own  graphic 
phraseology : — 

"  Bill  Wright,  of  Uppingham,  was  a  good-hearted  chap, 
but  given  to  very  vulgar  language.  Bill  and  me  were 
always  very  partikler  intimate — boys  together  in  the  racing- 
stables.  We  once  quarrelled,  out  hunting  with  Lord 
Lonsdale.  If  we  didn't  get  to  horse-whipping  each  other! 
— we  did,  indeed ! — for  three  miles  straight  across  country, 
cut  for  cut.  It  was  from  Preston  Gorse  in  the  Prior's 
Coppice  country.  All  the  gentlemen  shouted, '  Well  done, 
Dick!'  'Well  done.  Bill ! '  It  pleased  them  uncommonly. 
We  took  our  fences  reg'lar  all  the  time.  If  he  was  first 
over,  he  stopped  for  me.  If  I'd  ha'  fell,  he'd  have  jumped 
on  me,  and,  blame  me,  if  I  wouldn't  ha'  jumped  smack  on 
top  of  him.  We  fought  back  hand,  or  any  way  we  could 
cut.  Dal !  I  was  as  strong  as  an  elephant  then.  We  pulled 
our  horses  slap  bang  against  each  other.  He  gives  me  such 
tinglers  on  the  back  and  shoulders,  but  I  fetches  him  a  clip 
with  the  hock  end  of  my  whip  on  the  side  of  his  head — 
such  a  settler — and  gives  him  a  black  eye. 

"Then  I  says,  'Bill,  will  you  have  any  more,  'cos  I'm 
ready  prepared  for  you  ? '  But  he'd  got  his  dose  for  that 
day.  Six  weeks  after  that.  Reeves,  the  landlord  of  the 
Falcon,  at  Uppingham,  says  to  me,  '  What's  this  between 
you  and  Bill  ?  I'll  stand  a  bottle  of  wine  to  see  you  make 
it  up.  Let's  send  for  him.'  '  Well,'  I  says,  '  I  don't 
malice  him  if  he  don't  malice  me.'  So  he  comes,  and 
though  we  was  rather  awkward  at  first,  after  we'd  had  a 
glass  we  shook  hands  and  cleared  up  our  differences,  and 
after  that  we  was  like  brothers.  Lord  bless  you,  if  you 
want  to  like  a  man  thorough,  there's  nothing  like  fighting 
him  first." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  ARAB  AND  THE  ENGLISH 
RACEHORSE 

Unusual  interest  attached  to  the  Newmarket  First  July 
Meeting  of  1884  by  the  introduction  of  a  new  item  into 
the  programme — to  wit,  a  race  between  pure-bred  Arab 
horses.  Mr  Wilfred  Scawen  Blunt,  whose  enthusiasm  for 
the  Arabian  horse  is  well  known,  was  mainly  responsible 
for  the  race.  In  the  previous  month  he  contributed  a  long 
article  to  the  Nineteenth  Century  on  the  subject,  in  which 
he  took  the  opportunity  of  ventilating  his  views  on  the 
superiority  of  the  Arab  over  the  English  thoroughbred  in 
staying  power,  and  the  importance  of  strengthening  and 
improving  our  breed  of  racehorses  by  a  fresh  strain  of  pure 
Arab  blood.  The  race,  however,  was  a  somewhat  tame 
affair,  and  certainly  did  not  convince  English  breeders  that 
there  was  anything  to  be  gained  by  an  infusion  of  that 
Arab  blood  which  no  doubt  originally  helped  very  largely 
indeed  to  produce  our  modern  racehorse. 

There  have  always  been  persons  who  declare  that  our 
system  of  breeding  racehorses  sacrifices  stamina  to  speed, 
and  who  hold  up  the  Arab  as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  equine 
perfection.  But  the  experience  of  English  experts  on  the 
Turf  has  led  them  to  adopt  the  contrary  view. 

Some  years  ago  I  received  a  letter  from  a  well-known 
sportsman  in  Sydney  containing  some  very  interesting 
particulars  of  the  Arab  strain  as  it  has  affected  the  breed 
of  horses  in  New  South  Wales.  Some  of  these  were  new, 
and  therefore  I  make  no  apology  for  quoting  them  here. 

Sir  John  Lackey,  one  of  the  greatest  authorities  on  horse- 
breeding  in  Australia,  in  the  course  of  a  paper  read  before 

130 


ARAB  AND  ENGLISH  RACEHORSE    131 

the  Agricultural  Society  of  New  South  Wales  in  August 
1873  made  the  following  remarks  : — 

"  Though  the  best  judges  regard  the  English  blood-horse 
as  the  most  perfect  of  its  kind,  it  must  be  admitted  that  in 
this  Colony  the  Arabs  have  produced  some  of  the  most 
useful  animals  we  have  had  on  the  Turf.  However,  both 
here  and  elsewhere,  the  English  blood  has  always  occupied 
the  premier  position.  Some  years  ago,  Recruit,  an  English 
horse  of  moderate  reputation,  easily  beat  Pyramis,  the  best 
Arabian  on  the  Bengal  side  of  India,  It  will  be  admitted, 
also,  that  the  Walers  have  held  a  very  successful  place 
on  the  Turf  in  India  and  China :  most  of  the  horses  sent 
from  here  have  held  the  first  places  on  the  Turf  in  Madras, 
Calcutta,  and  Hong-Kong." 

My  correspondent's  letter  recalled  an  incident  in  the 
career  of  Admiral  Rous,  which  I  daresay  is  unknown  to 
most  Englishmen.  In  Australia  "The  Admiral"  is  still 
mentioned  with  affection  as  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Australian  Turf.  "  It  may  be,"  says  Sir  John  Lackey, 
"  that  there  are  some  who  have  only  a  slight  knowledge  of 
the  fact  that  before  he  became  the  court  from  whose  judg- 
ment on  sporting  questions  there  was  no  appeal,  he  was 
doing  his  best  to  show  us,  in  the  infancy  of  sporting  life 
here,  how  to  make  our  field  sports  the  pursuits  of  gentlemen 
and  men  of  honour  and  the  great  entertainments  of  the 
public.  He  came  to  this  country  as  a  young  man.  He 
only  obtained  his  command  in  the  Navy  a  few  years  before 
he  anchored  in  Sydney  Harbour,  and  in  those  seas  he 
remained  for  several  years.  He  came  here  as  commander 
of  the  frigate  Rainbow,  in  1825,  when  he  must  have  been 
less  than  thirty  years  of  age,  and  he  made  use  of  His 
Majesty's  ship,  even  in  those  distant  days,  for  the  purpose 
of  introducing  an  accession  to  the  blood  stock  of  the 
country.  From  the  time  of  his  arrival  he  took  an  active 
part  in  all  sports  which  he  could  support,  as  if  he  had 
been  sent  out,  not  to  command  a  war-ship,  but  to  give  the 
benefit  of  his  peculiar  knowledge  to  the  formation  of  a 
very  important  feature  of  our  national  character." 

Admiral  Rous's  interest  in  Australian  sport  took  a  more 
practical  form  than  personal  sympathy  and  encouragement. 


132  SPORTING   STORIES 

He  imported  two  first-rate  thoroughbreds,  Emigrant  and 
Rainbow,  of  which  my  correspondent  in  Sydney  gives  me 
these  particulars  : — "  Rainbow  did  nothing  here  worthy  of 
note,  but  Emigrant  has  left  his  mark  on  our  thoroughbreds 
to  an  extent  that  stamps  him  as  the  greatest  horse  ever 
imported  into  New  South  Wales.  Emigrant  is  a  household 
word  with  breeders  here ;  and  one  of  his  descendants, 
Yattendon,  was  the  sire  of  perhaps  a  greater  number  of 
celebrated  horses  than  any  horse  we  have  ever  had." 

Of  the  superiority  of  the  English  thoroughbred  over  the 
Arab  in  the  matter  of  speed  there  is  no  doubt  whatever ; 
but  those  who  believe  in  the  Arabian  horse  still  maintain 
that  in  staying  power  he  is  not  to  be  surpassed,  and  I  am 
not  aware  that  the  English  thoroughbred  has  ever  proved 
his  superiority  in  any  real  test  of  stamina.  There  was  a 
match  at  Cairo  on  the  25th  September  1853,  for  ^^350  a 
side,  between  an  Arab  and  a  thoroughbred  English  mare 
over  a  distance  of  gf  miles — 4  miles  7  furlongs  out  and  in — 
which  resulted  in  the  victory  of  the  Arab,  who  did  the  run 
out  in  15!  minutes  and  the  run  home  in  11^  minutes:  27^ 
minutes  for  the  gf  miles — at  least,  so  it  is  said.  But  there 
was  a  general  impression  among  the  Englishmen  present 
that  the  mare  would  have  won  if  she  had  not  swerved 
about  a  mile  from  home,  and  her  jockey  in  trying  to  turn 
her  was  upset  into  a  cane  fence.  However,  the  fact 
remains  that  the  Arab  did  win. 

At  the  time  of  George  Osbaldeston's  death,  when  the 
subject  of  his  great  200  miles  ride  at  Newmarket  cropped 
up  in  the  newspapers,  a  colonel  on  the  Bengal  retired 
list  gave  some  remarkable  particulars  of  combined  human 
and  equine  endurance,  in  which  the  Arab  figured  promi- 
nently. 

"I  believe,"  writes  the  colonel,  "that  Captain  Home 
of  the  Madras  Horse  Artillery  rode  200  miles  on  Arab 
horses  in  less  than  ten  hours  on  the  road  between  Madras 
and  Bangalore.  If  so,  considering  the  slower  speed  of 
Arabs,  the  climate  of  India,  and  the  ride  along  a  high 
road  instead  of  round  a  good  race-course  upon  some  of  the 
best  English  horses,  I  think  you  will  allow  Captain  Home's 
performance  to  have  been  fully  equal  to  the  Squire's. 


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ARAB  AND  ENGLISH  RACEHORSE    133 

"  I  had  but  a  casual  acquaintance  with  Captain  Home, 
from  meeting  him  on  some  of  our  Bengal  race-courses,  but 
I  have  always  admired  his  great  courage  and  endurance. 
I  believe  he  died  of  dysentery  after  winning  a  ^500  p.p. 
bet  that  he  would  ride  a  horse  named  Jumping  Jemmy 
100  miles  a  day  for  eight  successive  days.  He  started  on 
5th  July,  after  the  rainy  season  had  set  in,  when  the  heat 
was  excessive.  The  horse  was  none  the  worse  for  his 
performance,  but  Captain  Home's  death  was  the  unfor- 
tunate result. 

"Some  time  between  183 1  and  1835  the  late  Mr  Bacon, 
of  the  Bombay  Civil  Service,  rode  one  camel  from  Bombay 
to  Allyghur  (about  800  miles)  in  eight  days.  The  camel 
was  a  little  blood-looking  animal,  almost  black  ;  and  I  saw 
the  late  Mr  Vigne  make  a  sketch  of  his  head,  which  is 
reproduced  in  one  of  his  books. 

"About  the  year  1830,  Lord  Exmouth,  then  the  Hon. 
Mr  Pellew,  of  the  Bengal  Civil  Service,  rode  an  old 
English  horse  named  Cheroot  Box  100  miles  in  twenty- 
four  hours — easily.  I  could  draw  upon  recollection  for 
many  such  feats,  though  the  above  are  the  most  prominent 
in  my  memory.  One  more  I  will  give,  which  I  should 
think  is  recorded  in  the  Bengal  Sporting  Magazine.  It  took 
place  about  1838,  and  I  knew  the  performer,  a  very  light, 
wiry  man,  one  Lieutenant  Lowry,  of  the  21st  Bengal  Native 
Infantry.  In  consequence  of  missing  the  horses  that  should 
have  awaited  him  (our  only  mode  of  fast  travelling  in  those 
days),  he  rode  a  little  mare,  nearly  or  quite  thoroughbred, 
though  bred  in  India,  no  miles  in  eleven  hours.  I  have 
never  heard  the  truth  of  this  feat  doubted,  though,  like 
many  others,  it  may  not  have  been  recorded." 

In  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  Bailey's  Magazine^  Sir 
Charles  W.  A.  Oakeley  called  attention  to  the  performance 
of  his  Arab  horse.  The  Buffer,  in  India  in  1852,  which 
surpassed  those  I  have  alluded  to.  The  Buffer  covered 
10  miles  520  yards  in  25  minutes  and  35  seconds  with 
10  St.  6  lbs.  up,  and  "  without  the  horse  being  the  least 
pressed."  Sir  Charles  adds  that  "  there  could  not  be  a 
better  example  of  the  wonderful  endurance  of  the  Arab 
horse." 


134  SPORTING   STORIES 

As  to  the  comparison  of  Arab  and  English  racehorses, 
Sir  Charles  says  :  "  My  own  experience,  derived  from  having 
trained  and  raced  both  breeds,  as  well  as  Colonial  horses, 
for  several  years,  is  that  a  first-class  English  thorough- 
bred could  give  the  best  Arab  almost  any  weight  for  any 
distance  up  to  4  miles.  For  instance,  in  the  handicap 
for  the  Trade  Plate  at  Calcutta,  2  miles,  seven  horses 
ran,  and  the  winner  was  an  English  thoroughbred,  Pen- 
thesilea,  carrying  11  st.  10  lbs.  There  were  two  good 
Arabs  among  the  field:  Harold,  carrying  7  st.  12  lbs.,  and 
Rift-Royal  (winner  of  the  Calcutta  Derby  for  Arabs  only), 
with  only  a  feather-weight  on  his  back — yet  these  two  Arabs, 
with  all  these  handicap  advantages,  came  in  absolutely 
last."  This  is  certainly  a  very  convincing  illustration  of 
the  immense  superiority  of  the  English  thoroughbred  over 
a  2-mile  course. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FEATS  OF  EQUINE  ENDURANCE 

Lieutenant  Lowry's  feat,  described  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  sinks  into  insignificance  by  comparison  with  the 
alleged  performances  of  some  Arabs  and  their  horses. 
Among  many  extraordinary  tales  of  the  powers  of  endur- 
ance possessed  by  these  biped  and  quadruped  children  of 
the  desert,  there  is  one  related  of  an  Arab  who  did  eighty 
leagues  in  twenty-four  hours  on  his  horse.  During  that 
time  the  animal  had  no  food  except  the  leaves  of  a  dwarf 
palm,  which  it  nibbled  during  its  one  rest  of  an  hour.  It 
was  watered  but  once,  and  that  in  the  middle  of  the 
journey ;  and  the  man  who  narrated  the  story  to  a  French 
officer  swore  by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet — the  most 
solemn  oath  a  Mussulman  can  take — that,  had  his  safety 
required  it,  he  could,  on  the  following  night,  have  slept  at 
a  town  forty-five  leagues  farther  on  ! 

In  considering  these  stories,  one  must  bear  in  mind  the 
fact  that  the  finest  Arab  horses  never  come  into  the  market 
— they  are  absolutely  unpurchasable,  and  it  is  not  safe, 
therefore,  to  judge  of  the  powers  of  the  Arab  horse  by  the 
performances  of  those  with  which  Europeans  are  familiar. 
How  reluctant  the  Arab  is  to  part  with  his  horse,  and  what 
priceless  value  it  possesses  in  his  eyes,  is  illustrated  by  the 
following :  —The  whole  estate  of  an  Arab  of  the  desert  con- 
sisted of  a  mare.  The  French  Consul  offered  to  purchase 
her  to  send  to  the  Emperor.  The  Arab  would  have  re- 
jected the  proposal  with  indignation,  but  he  was  miserably 
poor ;  he  had  no  means  of  procuring  the  barest  necessities 
of  life.  Still  he  hesitated.  He  had  scarcely  a  rag  to  cover 
him,  and  his  wife  and  children  were  starving.  The  sum 
offered  was  great :  it  would  provide  him  and  his  family  with 

I3S 


136  SPORTING   STORIES 

food  for  life.  At  length  he  most  reluctantly  consented  to 
the  terms  offered.  He  brought  the  mare  to  the  dwelling 
of  the  Consul  ;  he  dismounted,  and  stood  leaning  against 
her ;  he  looked  now  at  the  gold  and  then  at  his  favourite  ; 
he  sighed,  and  exclaimed,  "  To  whom  am  I  going  to  yield 
thee  up  ?  To  Europeans,  who  will  tie  thee  close,  who  will 
beat  thee,  who  will  render  thee  miserable.  Return  with  me, 
my  beauty,  my  jewel,  and  rejoice  the  hearts  of  my 
children!"  and,  springing  upon  her  back,  he  was  out  of 
sight  in  a  moment. 

Here  is  another  anecdote  illustrative  of  the  same  trait  in 
the  Arab,  given  by  Sir  John  Malcolm.  When  encamped 
near  Bagdad,  an  Arab  rode  a  splendid  bright  bay  mare 
before  his  tent  until  he  attracted  his  attention.  On  being 
asked  if  he  would  sell  her,  "  What  will  you  give  me  ? " 
was  the  reply.  "  That  depends  upon  her  age :  I  suppose 
she  is  over  five."  "  Look  at  her  mouth,"  said  the  Arab, 
with  a  smile.  On  examination  she  was  found  to  be  rising 
three.  This,  from  her  size  and  symmetry,  greatly  enhanced 
her  value.  The  envoy  said,  "  I  will  give  you  fifty  tomans  " 
(a  coin  nearly  the  value  of  a  sovereign).  "A  little  more, 
if  you  please,"  said  the  Arab,  apparently  entertained. 
"  Eighty,  a  hundred."  He  shook  his  head,  and  smiled. 
The  offer  at  last  reached  two  hundred  tomans  !  "  Well," 
said  the  Arab,  "you  need  not  tempt  me  further.  You  are 
rich,  you  have  fine  horses,  camels,  and  mules,  and  I  am 
told  you  have  loads  of  silver  and  gold.  Now  you  want  my 
mare,  but  you  shall  not  have  her  for  all  you  possess." 

Yet  another  anecdote.  An  Arab  sheikh  who  lived  within 
fifty  miles  of  Bussorah  had  a  favourite  breed  of  horses. 
He  lost  one  of  his  best  mares,  and  could  not  discover 
whether  she  was  stolen  or  had  strayed.  Some  time  after, 
a  young  man  of  a  different  tribe,  who  had  long  wished  to 
marry  his  daughter,  but  had  always  been  rejected  by  the 
sheikh,  eloped  with  the  girl.  The  sheikh  and  his  followers 
pursued,  but  the  lover  and  his  mistress,  mounted  on  one 
horse,  outdistanced  them  and  escaped.  The  old  chief 
swore  that  the  fellow  was  mounted  either  on  a  devil  or  on 
his  favourite  mare ;  and  he  found  it  was  the  latter.  The 
lover  was  the  thief  of  his  mare  as  well  as  of  his  daughter, 


FEATS   OF   EQUINE   ENDURANCE  137 

and  had  stolen  the  one  to  carry  off  the  other.  The  chief 
was  quite  gratified  to  think  that  he  had  not  been  beaten 
by  a  mare  of  another  breed ;  he  was  easily  reconciled  to 
the  young  man  in  order  that  he  might  recover  the  mare, 
about  which  he  was  far  more  solicitous  than  the  fate  of  his 
daughter. 

There  is  a  superstition  among  the  Arabs  that  if  the  true 
Arab  horse  ever  treads  over  ploughed  land  he  deteriorates, 
and  a  story  was  told  to  a  French  traveller  by  the  renowned 
chief  Abd-el-Kader  to  illustrate  this  belief.  A  man  was 
riding  upon  a  horse  of  pure  blood  when  he  was  met  by  his 
enemy,  also  splendidly  mounted.  One  pursued  the  other, 
and  he  who  gave  chase  was  distanced  by  him  who  fled. 
Despairing  of  reaching  him,  the  pursuer  shouted  out, "  I  ask, 
in  the  name  of  God,  has  your  horse  ever  worked  upon  land?" 
"  He  has,  for  four  days,"  was  the  response.  "  By  the  beard 
of  the  Prophet,  I  shall  catch  you  ! "  shouted  the  other. 
"  Mine  never  has."  Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  sure 
enough,  the  horse  that  had  never  worked  was  the  victor,  and 
as  the  rider  of  the  degraded  horse  sank  under  the  blows  of 
his  enemy  the  conquerer  said  :  "  There  has  been  no  blessing 
on  our  country  since  we  changed  our  coursers  into  beasts 
of  burden  and  of  tillage.  Has  not  God  made  the  ox  for 
the  plough,  the  camel  to  transport  merchandise,  and  the 
horse  alone  for  the  race?  There  is  nothing  gained  by 
changing  the  ways  of  God." 

But  let  us  come  down  from  these  heights  of  Oriental 
romance  to  our  own  prosaic  England. 

An  extraordinary  match  was  run  at  Northampton  Races 
in  1791,  between  a  bay  mare  and  a  black  pony,  in  two 
4-mile  heats.  The  black  was  13  hands  2|  inches  high,  the 
bay  mare  barely  13  hands.  They  ran  the  first  4  miles 
carrying  14  st.  each  in  12  minutes,  and  the  second  in 
13^.  The  odds  were  6  to  i  on  the  black,  who  won  by 
about  half  a  length. 

A  curious  match  was  made  at  Epsom  in  1795  for  100 
guineas,  between  Mr  Grisewood's  horse  Crop  and  Mr 
Harris's  roan.  Crop  was  to  go  100  miles  before  the  roan 
went  80.  Crop  ran  his  first  20  miles  in  one  hour  and  a 
minute,  but  going   round   the   eleventh   time   was   nearly 


138  SPORTING   STORIES 

knocked  up.  The  other  was  also  so  tired  that  he  could  not 
even  trot.  After  this  they  walked  round  the  course  with 
their  riders  on  their  backs,  people  going  before  them  with 
bowls  of  oats  and  wisps  of  hay  to  entice  them  on.  By 
the  time  the  roan  had  done  his  80  miles  Crop  had  only 
accomplished  94,  and  consequently  lost. 

A  Yorkshire  clothier  once,  for  a  bet,  rode  his  pony, 
which  was  well  stricken  in  years  and  under  13  hands 
high,  80  miles  in  11  hours  and  55  minutes  on  the  Mor- 
peth road.  The  time  allowed  was  13  hours.  The  man 
weighed  14  st.  8  lbs.  The  pony  was  only  of  the 
common  cart-horse  breed,  which  renders  the  feat  the  more 
remarkable ;  and  when  it  was  over  he  seemed  none  the 
worse  for  his  exertions. 

A  still  more  astonishing  feat  was  performed  many  years 
ago  by  a  horse  which  had  never  been  bred  to  the  business. 
A  coachman  weighing  14  st.  was  sent  post-haste  from 
Arlington  to  Exeter  for  a  physician,  his  master  being 
dangerously  ill.  The  distance  is  47  miles :  the  road  was 
then  a  bad  one ;  the  horse  did  it  in  just  under  3  hours. 

Mr  Cooper  Thornhill,  of  the  Bell  Inn,  Stilton,  made  a 
match  for  a  large  sum  to  ride  three  times  between  Stilton 
and  London,  213  miles,  in  15  hours,  no  limit  being  placed 
on  the  number  of  horses  he  might  use.  The  following 
shows  the  result : — 

From  Stilton  to  London  (Shore- 
ditch)       .... 
From  London  to  Stilton     . 
From  Stilton  to  London     . 
This  was  3  hours  26  minutes  and  8  seconds  under  the  time 
allowed. 

In  1790  a  gentleman  drove  a  single-horse  chaise  50 
miles  on  the  Hertford  road  in  4  hours  55  minutes,  the  time 
allowed  being  5  hours.  In  the  same  year  a  man  rode  from 
the  fourth  milestone  on  the  Essex  road  to  Chelmsford  twice 
and  back  again,  100  miles,  in  15^  hours,  though  he  had 
16  hours  to  do  it  in.  Soon  afterwards  Mr  Samuel  Bendall, 
of  Dursley,  Gloucestershire,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six,  rode 
1000  miles  in  1000  consecutive  hours  on  the  same  horse. 

A  man  has  been  known,  more  than  once,  to  beat  a  horse 


3 

h. 

52 

m. 

59  s. 

3 

h. 

50 

m. 

57  s. 

3 

h. 

49 

m. 

56  s. 

FEATS   OF   EQUINE   ENDURANCE   139 

in  speed.  In  175 1  a  noted  pedestrian  named  Pinwire, 
for  a  bet  of  50  guineas,  walked  against  a  horse  for  12 
hours  and  beat  it  easily.  This  was  not  the  only  time  his 
two  legs  came  off  victorious  against  four :  in  several  suc- 
cessive years  he  beat  some  of  the  best  roadsters  in  England. 

The  late  Mr  Edward  Hayward  Budd,  one  of  the  finest 
all-round  athletes  of  his  day,  and  an  especially  good  sprint- 
runner,  tells  the  following  story  of  how  he  was  once  matched 
to  run  against  a  horse.  "  One  day,  after  dinner,  a  son  of 
General  Archdale  offered  to  back  his  horse  to  do  100 
yards  against  me  for  ^10.  I  entirely  forgot  to  make  it 
50  yards  out  and  back.  As  I  expected,  I  was  beaten  ; 
but,  notwithstanding  my  mistake,  he  did  not  get  away  from 
me  till  we  had  run  80  yards,  and  then  he  splashed  the 
mud  in  my  face,  as  the  ground  was  very  soft.  It  was 
in  Hyde  Park,  and,  not  much  to  my  credit,  on  a  Sunday 
morning." 

Races  between  pedestrians  and  equestrians  have,  of 
course,  been  a  familiar  spectacle  in  the  great  circus-shows ; 
but  then,  these  are  probably  "  arranged  affairs,"  and  the 
horses  are  not  flyers. 

A  singular  story  of  equine  sagacity  and  emulation, 
perhaps  almost  without  parallel  in  sporting  annals,  is  the 
following : — 

In  September  1793,  at  a  race  at  Ennis  in  Ireland, 
Atalanta,  a  mare  belonging  to  Mr  Eyre,  took  the  lead  of 
three  other  horses  running  in  the  race.  She  had,  however, 
scarcely  gone  half  a  mile  when  she  fell  and  threw  her 
rider.  Recovering  herself  immediately,  she  dashed  forward 
riderless,  and  preserved  the  lead  to  the  end  of  the  heat, 
during  which  she  passed  her  stable  and  the  winning-post 
twice;  nor  did  she  stop  till  the  flag  was  dropped  to  the 
winner ;  then,  after  trotting  a  few  paces,  she  wheeled  round 
and  came  up  to  the  scales  to  weigh.  During  the  race  she 
frequently  looked  behind  and  quickened  her  pace  as  she 
saw  the  other  horses  gaining  on  her  ! ! ! 

To  hark  back  for  a  moment  to  the  East,  here  is  a  re- 
markable story  of  the  power  of  controlling  intractable 
horses  possessed  by  Orientals,  though  the  scene  of  the 
exploit  is  laid  in  England.     In  1803  a   grand   entertain- 


140  SPORTING    STORIES 

ment  was  given  to  the  Turkish  Ambassador,  Elfi  Bey,  at 
which  the  Prince  Regent  was  present.  The  conversation 
turned  upon  horse-taming,  and  His  Excellency  was  relating 
stories  of  his  countrymen's  gifts  in  that  direction.  "  I  have 
now  in  my  stables,"  said  the  Prince,  "  an  Egyptian  horse 
so  ungovernable  that  I  will  stake  any  amount  that  not  one 
of  your  followers  can  mount  him."  "  I  will  take  your 
Royal  Highness's  challenge,"  replied  the  Bey,  "  and  it  shall 
be  decided  to-morrow."  An  appointment  was  made  for 
two  o'clock  on  the  following  day  at  the  Prince's  Riding 
House,  Pall  Mall,  and  at  that  hour  His  Excellency,  ac- 
companied by  his  interpreter  and  Mahomet  Aga,  his 
principal  officer,  a  young  man  of  great  agility,  arrived  at 
the  appointed  place,  where  the  Prince  and  the  Duke  of 
York,  with  several  noblemen  in  attendance,  were  already 
awaiting  his  arrival. 

The  greatest  curiosity  was  manifested  as  to  the  result, 
as  no  one  had  ever  been  able  to  keep  his  seat  for  a  minute 
on  the  savage  brute.  One  of  the  Mameluke's  saddles  being 
fixed  by  the  grooms,  the  animal  was  led  into  the  riding- 
house  in  so  rampant  and  unmanageable  a  state  that  it 
seemed  madness  for  any  one  to  attempt  to  mount  him.  The 
creature  was  a  model  of  beauty  ;  he  was  spotted  like  a 
leopard,  and  his  magnificent  eyes  seemed  to  glow  like 
living  coals.  Yet,  as  coolly  as  though  he  had  been  the 
most  docile  of  animals,  the  young  Mahomet  Aga,  as  he 
was  led  round,  seized  the  reins,  and,  quick  as  lightning, 
vaulted  on  to  his  back.  The  horse,  maddened  by  the 
pressure  of  the  Egyptian  saddle,  reared  and  plunged 
in  the  most  furious  manner,  but  all  to  no  purpose ;  the 
Mameluke,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  present,  kept  his 
seat  as  firmly  as  though  he  was  glued  to  the  saddle,  until 
at  length,  exhausted  by  his  efforts  and  finding  he  had 
met  his  master,  the  horse  tamely  yielded  to  the  control 
of  his  rider. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

SPORT  AT  THE  'VARSITIES 

Nowhere  have  the  changed  conditions  of  sport  since  the 
early  Victorian  era  been  more  marked  than  at  the 
Universities.  There  must  be  many  old  'Varsity  men  who 
can  remember  the  time  when  badger-drawing,  rat-killing, 
dog-fighting,  surreptitious  excursions  to  prize-fights,  and 
the  like  were  the  staple  amusements  of  our  academic  youth. 
Cricket  was  then  a  game  only  played  by  a  few  enthusiasts ; 
football  was  but  a  pastime  for  schoolboys,  athletics  were 
unknown,  and  not  one  man  in  ten  cared  for  rowing.  Those 
who  could  afford  it  hunted  ;  but  to  the  great  bulk  of  under- 
graduates such  amusement  was  beyond  their  means,  and  if 
their  tastes  were  sporting,  they  could  only  gratify  them  by 
those  recreations  of  the  "  Fancy "  which  I  have  named. 
Billiards  were  taboo.  It  is  not  long  since  I  met  an  old 
Devonshire  parson  who  told  me  that  in  his  day  at 
Cambridge  anyone  who  yearned  for  a  game  of  billiards  had 
to  sneak  over  to  Chesterton  for  it,  at  the  risk  of  being 
proctorised. 

If  there  are  any  Dons  nowadays  who  read  Peter  Priggins 
or  The  Adventures  of  Mr  Verdant  Green,  they  must  shudder 
to  think  that  such  coarse  amusements  as  are  there  described 
formed  part  of  the  life  of  the  academic  youth  of  England. 
But  the  coarseness  was  not  apparent  to  those  who  indulged 
in  them,  and  there  were  diversions  which  were  harmless 
enough,  though  they  would  hardly  commend  themselves  to 
the  Dons  or  the  undergraduates  of  the  present  day. 

For  example,  a  Cambridge  friend  of  Charles  Kingsley, 
after  describing  their  fishing  excursions  and  occasional 
rides  to  hounds,  proceeds  : — 

"  Besides  these  expeditions,  we  made  others  on  horseback, 

141 


142  SPORTING   STORIES 

and  at  times  we  followed  Professor  Sedgwick  (the  famous 
geologist)  in  his  rides,  which  the  livery-stable  keepers  called 
'jollygizing.'  The  old  Professor  was  generally  mounted 
on  a  bony  giant,  whose  trot  kept  most  of  us  at  a  hand- 
gallop.  Gaunt  and  grim,  the  old  man  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
fun  as  much  as  we  did — his  was  not  a  hunting-seat — neither 
his  hands  nor  his  feet  ever  seemed  exactly  in  the  right 
place.  But  when  we  surrounded  him  at  the  trysting-place, 
even  the  dullest  among  us  acknowledged  that  his  lectures 
were  glorious.  It  is  true  that  our  method  of  reaching  those 
places  was  not  legitimate,  the  greater  number  preferring  the 
field  to  the  road,  so  that  the  unhappy  owners  of  the  horses 
found  it  necessary  to  charge  more  for  a  day's  '  jollygizing' 
than  they  did  for  a  day's  hunting.  There  was  another 
professor  whose  lectures  we  attended  together,  but  he  was 
of  a  different  type  and  character — one  who  taught  the 
gentle  art  of  self-defence — a  pure-blooded  negro,  who 
appeared  to  have  more  joints  in  his  back  than  are  usually 
allotted  to  humanity.  In  carrying  out  the  science  which 
he  taught,  we  occasionally  discoloured  each  other's  counten- 
ances, but  we  thought  that  we  benefited  by  those  lectures 
in  more  senses  than  one.  We  had  our  tempers  braced, 
for  instance,  when  we  learnt  to  feel  as  we  ought  for  those 
who  had  just  punished  us." 

The  dusky  professor  here  alluded  to  was  Sambo  Sutton, 
who  fought  several  successful  battles  in  the  Prize  Ring, 
and,  besides  being  a  fine  boxer,  was  "  a  fellow  of  infinite 
jest."  He  had  the  true  vis  comica  characteristic  of  the  negro 
race,  and  as  a  humorist  had  no  superior  among  his  con- 
temporaries. One  of  his  feats  was  to  stand  on  his  head 
and  sing  a  patter  song  with  a  clattering  accompaniment  of 
his  huge  feet. 

That  things  were  much  the  same  at  Oxford  I  gather 
from  Tom  Hughes'  memoir  of  the  late  Bishop  Fraser  of 
Manchester.  After  referring  to  various  phases  of  life  at 
Oriel,  his  biographer  adds :  "  But,  above  all,  the  College 
was  the  home  of  the  noble  science  of  self-defence  in  the 
University.  It  almost  supported  a  retired  prize-fighter, 
who  had  been  known  in  the  ring  as  the  '  Flying  Tailor,' 
and  cordially  welcomed  any  stray  pugilist  who  might  be 


SPORT   AT   THE    VARSITIES       143 

training  in  the  neighbourhood  and  was  in  need  of  a  pound 
or  two.  There  were  regular  meetings  in  some  of  the 
largest  rooms  two  or  three  times  a  week,  at  which  men  of 
all  weights,  from  eight  stone  upwards,  might  find  suitable 
matches;  and  occasional  public  gatherings  at  the 'Weirs' 
or  '  Wheatsheaf '  promoted  by  Oriel  men  for  the  benefit  of 
one  or  other  of  these  professionals.  In  short,  athletics 
were  accepted  as  the  main  object  of  residence  at  the 
University,  and  the  other  branches  of  a  polite  education 
looked  upon  as  subordinate  and  inferior." 

Now  James  Fraser,  when  he  became  a  Fellow  and  tutor, 
was  at  first  unpopular  among  the  Oriel  men,  and  would 
possibly  have  remained  so  to  the  end  but  for  an  unexpected 
display  of  physical  prowess.  Amongst  the  Oriel  athletes 
at  this  time  was  a  Scotsman,  a  scholar  of  the  College,  James 
Mackie  by  name  (afterwards  M.P.  for  Kirkcudbrightshire), 
a  man  of  great  strength  and  stature.  He  had  brought  with 
him  from  Rugby  the  name  of  "  the  Bear,"  from  the  close- 
ness of  his  hug  in  wrestling,  in  which  it  was  believed  he 
had  never  been  worsted.  "  He  was  one  of  a  party  at  a 
particularly  festive  supper  (to  celebrate  the  bringing  home 
of  the  London  and  Henley  Challenge  Cups  to  Oriel)  which 
had  adjourned  to  the  grass  plot,  when  the  usual  warning 
signal  was  seen  at  the  Provost's  window.  Mackie  made  off 
at  once  for  his  rooms,  and,  the  night  being  dark,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  passage  between  the  two  quadrangles  ran 
up  against  someone  whom  he  took  for  the  under  porter. 
Which  of  the  two  grappled  the  other  was  never  accurately 
known,  but  the  collision  resulted  in  a  spirited  wrestling 
bout  between  them ;  and  '  the  Bear '  admitted  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  get  rid  of  his  opponent,  who,  after  all,  was  only 
left  on  hand  and  knee,  no  fair  fall  having  been  scored  on 
either  side.  But  the  tussle  had  lasted  long  enough  for 
Mackie  to  recognise  his  antagonist,  and  no  doubt  the 
recognition  was  mutual  ;  and  grave  were  the  fears  of  those 
in  the  secret  for  some  days  whether  an  untimely  end  might 
not  be  put  to  the  career  of  the  scholar,  and  so  a  vacancy, 
hard  to  fill,  be  created  at  number  four  in  the  College  boat. 
But  nothing  happened;  and  so  Fraser,  who  had  been 
peaceably  on  his  way  to  the  library  for  a  book,  got  the 


144  SPORTING   STORIES 

credit,  not  only  of  having  held  his  own  with  the  best 
wrestler  in  the  College,  but  of  having  kept  the  affair  to 
himself,  knowing  that  the  collision  was  an  accident.  From 
this  time  he  was  spoken  of  as  '  Jemmy,'  and  attained  to  the 
equivalent  of  '  the  most  favoured  nation  '  clause  in  the 
undergraduate's  tutorial  code." 

Fraser  was  a  keen  sportsman,  but  sternly  denied  himself 
the  pleasures  he  most  loved  whilst  he  was  an  under- 
graduate, from  motives  of  economy.  He  was  a  good  horse- 
man, passionately  fond  of  hunting,  and  one  of  the  first 
things  he  did  on  attaining  his  fellowship  was  to  gratify  his 
taste  for  riding  to  hounds,  now  that  he  was  in  a  position  to 
afford  it.  But  on  taking  orders  he  abandoned  sport  for 
ever.  Before  he  actually  entered  the  ministry,  however, 
he  resolved  to  have  one  farewell  burst  with  hounds.  He 
therefore  took  a  couple  of  horses  down  to  Atherstone,  put 
up  at  the  noted  sporting  hotel  there,  and  had  three  weeks 
of  glorious  sport  in  the  Shire  of  Shires,  a  full  and  minute 
account  of  which  is  preserved  among  his  correspondence. 
He  was  also  extremely  fond  of  tandem-driving,  and  was 
an  excellent  whip.  One  last  long  tandem  tour  he  took 
with  a  friend  before  his  ordination,  and  then  bade  farewell 
to  that  recreation  too  for  ever. 

In  my  time  at  Cambridge  there  was  an  eccentric  but 
good-hearted  Fellow  of  Trinity  who  was  an  enthusiastic 
admirer  of  athletics,  and  scandalised  his  fellow  Dons  by 
bringing  one  Sunday  to  the  high  table  in  Hall,  Deerfoot, 
the  famous  Indian  runner.  When  remonstrated  with,  he 
maintained  that  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  invite  his  strange 
guest  as  "  a  distinguished  person,"  there  being  nothing  in 
the  College  rules  to  define  the  nature  of  the  distinction 
which  qualified  a  stranger  to  be  the  guest  of  a  Fellow. 
There  is  a  legend  to  the  effect  that  a  Dean  of  St  John's 
once  invited  the  well-known  pugilist  Peter  Crawley  to 
breakfast  at  his  rooms,  under  the  impression  that  he  was 
a  member  of  the  University.  Peter,  in  cap  and  gown,  had 
rescued  the  Dean  from  a  nasty  melee  in  the  Town  and 
Gown  row  on  the  previous  evening,  and  the  grateful  Don, 
struck  with  admiration  at  the  way  he  used  his  fists,  asked 
him  his  name  and  college.     Peter  had  been  duly  coached, 


SPORT   AT   THE    VARSITIES       145 

and  promptly  replied,  "  Magdalene."  "  You  are  a  very  fine, 
powerful  young  man,"  said  the  Dean,  "  and  your  skill  in 
boxing  is  extraordinary.  I  should  like  to  know  where  you 
learned  it,  and  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  breakfast  with  me 
to-morrow."  But  when  the  morning  came  Peter  was  back 
in  his  own  crib,  The  Queen's  Head  and  French  Horn, 
in  Smithfield,  and  the  Dean  was  left  to  ponder  on  the 
deplorable  fact  that  such  efficiency  in  pugilism  should 
be  accompanied  by  such  deplorable  manners.  It  was  on 
this  incident,  I  believe,  that  Cuthbert  Bode  founded  his 
episode  of  the  Putney  Pet's  Oxford  experiences  in  Verdant 
Green. 

A  more  famous  pugilist  than  Peter  Crawley,  however, 
was  once  an  honoured  guest  at  Cambridge.  This  was 
Daniel  Mendoza,  the  celebrated  Jew,  whose  name  for  years 
was  a  household  word  wherever  British  sportsmen  congre- 
gated. Dan  was  at  one  time  under  the  patronage  of  a 
member  of  Jesus  College — a  Mr  Honeywood,  who  after- 
wards represented  Kent  in  Parliament — and  was  invited  to 
spend  a  few  days  with  him  at  the  'Varsity.  His  arrival 
made  a  great  sensation  in  Cambridge.  Town  and 
Gown  vied  with  each  other  in  doing  him  honour,  and  he 
made  a  rich  harvest  by  giving  lectures,  accompanied  by 
practical  illustrations  of  the  science  he  professed.  Even 
the  Master  of  Trinity  recommended  the  undergraduates 
to  profit  by  the  famous  champion's  instruction. 

While  passing  through  the  hall  of  Jesus  College  one  day, 
Dan  stopped  before  a  map  of  Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land, 
and  in  choice  English  gave  his  opinion  of  Moses  (not  a 
complimentary  one),  the  miracles,  and  especially  the 
passing  of  the  Red  Sea,  with  a  vigour  of  language  and  a 
lack  of  reverence  that  greatly  astonished  some  of  the 
graver  Dons.  "  I  remember,"  says  Dr  Richardson  of 
Magdalene, "  being  invited  to  meet  the  '  illustrious  stranger ' 
at  a  supper  party  at  St  John's  College.  The  party  was  a 
small  one,  consisting  of  the  gentleman  who  '  kept '  in  the 
rooms,  myself,  Mr  Honeywood  (all  members  of  the 
University),  Mendoza,  Mr  Harry  Browning,  a  retired 
cavalry  quartermaster  and  horse-dealer,  '  Dick  Vaughan,' 
the   landlord    of  the   Bell,  and    Mr   Snow,  eminent   as   a 

lo 


146  SPORTING   STORIES 

Brighton  coachman.  This  individual  was  a  typical 
specimen  of  his  trade.  Continuously  sitting  on  the  box, 
and  free  indulgence  in  all  good  things  of  life,  had  swollen 
his  body  to  such  a  size  that  walking  was  almost  impossible 
to  him.  In  hot  or  cold  weather  he  was  encased  in  waist- 
coats, coats,  and  greatcoats.  In  addition  to  top-boots, 
he  was  protected,  from  the  lower  parts  of  his  calves 
to  his  thighs,  with  knee-caps  of  knitted  wool,  whilst 
a  silk  handkerchief  of  Belcher  pattern,  tied  round  his 
neck  in  a  peculiar  knot,  gave  a  professional  finish  to  the 
toilette. 

"  Bishop  was  the  tipple — a  compound  of  scalding  hot 
port,  with  sugar,  lemons  and  Seville  oranges  stuffed  full  of 
spices,  roasted  on  a  gridiron,  and  thrown  piping  hot  into 
the  bubbling  flood.  Tokeley,  the  college  porter,  a  burly 
man  of  considerable  strength  and  long  accustomed  to  the 
business,  had  some  difficulty  in  carrying  the  huge  cup  and 
placing  it  on  the  table.  It  is  true  he  was  accustomed,  in 
his  progress  from  the  buttery  to  the  supper-room,  to  assert 
his  right  to  what  he  called  his  '  reg-lars,'  and  it  was  very 
apparent  that  his  claims  had  been  enforced.  As  supple- 
ments to  this  bowl,  smaller  cups,  brimming  with  milk 
punch,  were  placed  on  the  table,  and  were  all  emptied 
during  the  evening. 

"  As  the  evening  advanced  the  conversation  became 
unusually  animated.  Differences  of  opinion  were  expressed 
in  language  not  parliamentary ;  order  was  proclaimed  by 
the  president,  and  the  conflict  of  words  was  for  a  time 
allayed  by  soothing  potations  of  Bishop.  The  remedy, 
being  taken  too  frequently,  aggravated  the  complaint,  and 
Mr  Snow  and  Mr  Browning  arose  simultaneously  froni 
their  chairs  to  refer  their  claims  to  veracity  to  'trial  by 
battle.'  Messrs  Mendoza  and  Vaughan  constituted  them- 
selves the  judges,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  formed  the 
'suite'  of  the  combatants.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  the 
ponderous  Snow  set-to ;  but  what  he  lacked  in  agility  he 
made  up  in  weight  and  size,  and  so  long  as  he  could 
protect  his  expansive  bread-basket  he  was  all  right ;  it 
may  be  supposed  the  scene  was  not  carried  on  with  the 
silence  the  sanctity  of  the  place  and  the  lateness  of  the 


SPORT   AT   THE    VARSITIES       147 

hour  required.  The  steps  of  some  one  descending  the 
staircase  from  the  apartments  of  old  Dr  Cravan,  the  master 
of  the  college,  were  heard  by  the  quick  ear  of  the  giver  of 
the  revel,  '  For  heaven's  sake,  gentlemen,  get  out  of  my 
rooms,  or  I  shall  be  sent  down  ! '  he  cried.  The  com- 
batants were  with  some  difficulty  torn  asunder,  the  head 
of  the  ex-quartermaster  being  rescued  from  beneath  the 
left  arm  of  the  Brighton  coachman,  who  had  succeeded  in 
getting  it  into  '  chancery,'  and  the  whole  party  effected  a 
retreat  through  the  courtyard  to  the  porter's  lodge,  and 
gained  the  street.  Here  the  combat  was  renewed,  and 
might  have  lasted  some  time  had  it  not  been  announced 
by  certain  flying  parties,  who  had  probably  been  cele- 
brating similar  orgies  elsewhere,  that  the  proctors  were 
on  the  alert,  upon  which  warning  there  was  a  general 
'  skedaddle.' " 

This  Mr  Vaughan  was,  for  five-and-forty  years,  one  of 
the  lions  of  the  University  of  Cambridge,  and  became  so 
popular  at  the  Bell  with  the  undergraduates  that  the 
authorities  prevented  his  licence  being  renewed  ;  after  which 
he  drove  the  Cambridge  "  Up-Telegraph  "  every  morning 
from  the  Sun  in  Trumpington  Street,  half-way  to 
London,  and  drove  the  "  Down-Telegraph  "  from  the  half- 
way point  to  Cambridge  every  afternoon.  Dick  Vaughan 
was  a  great  cocker,  and  one  day  invited  the  writer  I  have 
quoted  to  visit  his  cockpit.  "  I  proceeded,"  says  the 
latter,  "to  mount  a  ladder  which  was  lowered  from  the 
reception-room  for  the  admission  of  those  who  had  the 
entree,  and  was  pulled  up  again  to  prevent  the  intrusion 
of  the  uninvited.  Mr  Vaughan  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
which  were  rolled  up,  disclosing  a  pair  of  long,  bony  arms, 
smeared  with  blood.  In  his  hands  he  held  a  favourite 
'  black-breasted  red,'  which  he  was  preparing  to  launch  in 
mortal  combat  against  a  '  duck-wing,'  for  which  another 
individual  known  as  '  Scotch  George '  acted  as  second. 
Around  the  pit,  which  was  formed  of  newly  cut  turf, 
was  assembled  a  mixed  company.  Town  and  Gown,  all 
eager  for  the  fray,  and  busy  at  backing  the  bird  they 
fancied.  The  contest  terminated  in  the  death  of  '  the 
duck-wing,'    followed      by    a    yell    of    exultation     from 


148  SPORTING   STORIES 

Vaughan,  who  was  a  considerable  gainer  by  the  even- 
ing's diversions." 

About  this  time  a  curious  character,  named  Jemmy 
Gordon,  was  a  well-known  personage  in  Cambridge  and  on 
Newmarket  Heath.  A  noisy,  drunken,  witty,  impudent 
blackguard,  who  would  hold  a  horse,  sell  the  "  c'reckt  card," 
or  do  any  other  loafing  business  to  get  a  drink.  Nobody 
knew  where  he  lived  or  slept.  He  wore  satin  breeches, 
open  at  the  knees,  no  stockings,  boots  half-way  up  his  legs, 
and  a  huge  cocked  hat  on  his  head.  Yet  the  fellow  was  a 
good  Latin  scholar,  and  earned  many  a  half-guinea  by 
writing  exercises  for  idle  undergraduates.  He  was  no 
respecter  of  persons,  and,  when  under  the  influence  of  beer 
or  gin,  would  call  at  the  rooms  of  the  undergraduates,  and 
even  of  the  Dons. 

One  day  he  entered  the  rooms  of  Dr  Mansell,  Bishop 
of  Bristol,  and  with  drunken  effrontery  requested  the  loan 
of  half  a  crown.  The  prelate,  highly  indignant,  told  him 
to  begone.  But  Jemmy  held  his  ground  until  the  Bishop, 
rising  in  great  wrath,  exclaimed,  "  Be  off,  vagabond  !  return 
here  when  you  can  bring  a  greater  scoundrel  than  your- 
self, and  then  I  will  give  you  five  shillings."  And  he 
pushed  him  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

As  Jemmy  descended  into  the  courtyard  of  Trinity 
College,  he  encountered  the  Esquire  Bedell,  Beverly.  "  Mr 
Beverly,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  cocked  hat  and  bowing ; 
"  you're  the  very  gentleman  I  was  looking  for.  The  Bishop 
of  Bristol  has  just  sent  me  in  search  of  you  ;  he  is  most 
anxious  to  see  you  at  once,  and  I  am  to  accompany  you 
to  his  lordship's  presence."  Mr  Beverly  was  no  great 
favourite  of  Dr  Mansell's,  so  he  was  surprised  at  the 
message,  although  he  lost  no  time  in  attending.  Jemmy 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  from  which  he  had  just  been 
expelled,  and  almost  thrust  his  victim  into  it.  "  Your 
lordship,"  he  said,  "you  promised  me  five  shillings  when 
I  should  bring  here  a  greater  scoundrel  than  myself; 
allow  me  to  present  Mr  Beverly  to  your  lordship."  The 
Bishop  and  his  visitor  stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment, 
and  then  the  latter  bolted.  Jemmy  remained,  and  his 
lordship,  either  to  get   rid  of  him,  or  from   a  conviction 


SPORT   AT   THE    VARSITIES       149 

that  he  had  earned  his  reward,  handed  him  over  the  five 
shillings. 

Amongst  the  odd  sporting  characters  in  Cambridge  in 
my  time  was  old  Callaby,  who  kept  a  "  fancy  establish- 
ment "  in  Ram  Yard.  There  was  always  a  badger  on  the 
premises  for  "  gents'  dogs "  to  display  their  prowess  in 
"  drawing  "  ;  rats,  too,  were  always  in  stock  for  those  who 
enjoyed  the  noble  sport  of  watching  a  terrier  slaughter  the 
terrified  rodents;  there  was  a  raven  who  was  a  perfect 
marvel  of  cunning  and  wickedness,  and  whom  Callaby 
would  back  to  kill  rats  against  most  dogs.  But  the  most 
pitiable  and  remarkable  object  in  this  strange  menagerie 
was  a  forlorn  and  dilapidated  eagle,  whose  melancholy  fate 
it  was  to  afford  sport  to  foolish  human  fledglings  by  slaying 
rats.  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  more  pathetic  sight  than 
that  eagle  as  he  looked  round  with  an  air  of  shame  and 
humiliation  on  the  thoughtless  boys  who  had  come  to 
witness  his  degradation.  So  must  blind  Samson  have 
looked  when  he  made  sport  for  the  Philistines. 

I  shall  never  forget  old  Callaby's  rage  when  one  morning 
a  band  of  us,  filled  with  the  spirit  of  mischief,  raided  his 
den  and  set  loose  the  whole  menagerie  in  the  yard.  Dogs, 
cats,  rats,  ferrets,  weasels,  gamecocks,  the  badger,  the  raven, 
and  the  eagle  all  suddenly  found  themselves  mixed  up, 
and  there  was  a  general  melee,  the  din  of  which  speedily 
brought  old  Callaby  on  the  scene  in  a  state  bordering  upon 
frenzy.  I  thought  he  would  have  shot  some  of  us  in  his 
rage,  for  he  picked  up  a  loaded  rifle — there  was  a  shooting- 
gallery  attached  to  the  den — and  for  a  moment  he  looked 
as  if  he  seriously  meant  homicide.  However,  he  was 
eventually  pacified  and  his  ruffled  feelings  soothed  by  coin 
of  the  realm.  But  it  "  arrides  me "  now,  as  Elia  would 
have  said,  to  call  up  the  picture  of  that  motley  crowd  of 
birds  and  beasts,  hereditary  foes,  all  suddenly  and  without 
warning  thrown  face  to  face.  The  eagle  alone  preserved 
his  dignity,  and  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  screaming  mass 
in  disdainful  silence. 

Another  noted  character,  too,  was  the  ostler  of  the  Blue 
Boar — Hills,  I  think  his  name  was — who,  though  very  stout, 
was   an   extraordinary   sprinter.       He    used    to   tuck   his 


150  SPORTING    STORIES 

stomach  in  with  his  hands  in  a  most  comical  manner  when 
he  ran.  Many  a  match  he  won  against  'Varsity  men  who 
fancied  themselves,  and  would  give  him  ten  yards  start  in  a 
hundred. 

Newmarket  and  its  races  have,  of  course,  always  had 
irresistible  attractions  for  the  sporting  undergraduate  of 
Cambridge,  and  not  long  since  I  came  across  a  curious 
illustration  of  this  as  far  back  as  the  reign  of  George  II. 
It  is  a  letter  from  a  Fellow-Commoner  of  King's  College, 
Cambridge,  to  a  friend  in  London,  and  I  give  it  in  full  as  a 
racy  revelation  of  the  character  of  the  sporting  under- 
graduate of  that  time. 

"Dear  Jack, —  I  was  in  hopes  I  should  have  met  you  at 
Newmarket  Races,  but,  if  your  luck  had  turned  out  so  bad 
as  mine,  you  did  better  to  stay  away.  Dick  Riot,^  Tom 
Lowngeit,  and  I  went  together  to  Newmarket  the  first  day 
of  the  meeting.  I  rode  my  little  bay  mare,  that  cost  me 
thirty  guineas  in  the  North.  I  never  crossed  a  better  tit 
in  my  life.  She  is  as  fleet  as  the  wind.  I  raced  with  Dick 
and  Tom  all  the  way  from  Cambridge  to  Newmarket. 
Dick  rode  his  roan  gelding,  and  Tom  his  chestnut  mare, 
both  of  which,  as  you  know,  have  speed,  but  I  beat  them 
hollow. 

"  I  cannot  help  telling  you  that  I  was  dressed  in  my  blue 
riding-frock  with  plate  buttons,  with  a  leather  belt  round 
my  waist,  my  jemmy  turn-down  boots  made  by  Tull,  my 
brown  scratch  bob,  and  my  hat  with  the  narrow  silver  lace, 
cocked  in  the  true  sporting  taste  ;  so  that  altogether  I  don't 
believe  there  was  a  more  knowing  figure  on  the  course.  I 
was  very  flush  too,  Jack,  for,  Michaelmas  Day  happening 
damned  luckily  just  about  the  time  of  the  races,  I  had 
received  fifty  guineas  for  my  quarterage. 

"As  soon  as  I  came  upon  the  course,  I  met  with  some 
jolly  bucks  from  London.  I  never  saw  them  before. 
However,  we  were  soon  acquainted,  and  I  took  up  the 
odds  ;  but  I  was  damnably  let  in,  for  I  lost  thirty  guineas 
slap  the  first  day.  The  day  after  I  had  no  remarkable 
luck  one  way  or  the  other ;  but  at  last  I  laid  all  the  cash  I 

^  The  names  have  been  altered. 


SPORT   AT   THE    VARSITIES        151 

had  left  upon  Lord  March's  Smart,  who  lost,  you  know ; 
but,  between  you  and  me,  I  have  a  great  notion  that  Tom 
Marshall  rode  booty.  However,  I  had  a  mind  to  push  my 
luck  as  far  as  I  could,  so  I  sold  my  poor  little  mare  for 
twelve  pieces,  went  to  the  coffee-house,  and  left  them  all 
behind  me  at  the  gaming-table,  and  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  get  back  to  Cambridge  that  night  if  Bob  Whip,  of 
Trinity,  had  not  taken  me  up  into  his  phaeton.  We  have 
had  a  round  of  dinners  at  our  rooms  ever  since,  and  I  have 
been  drunk  every  day  to  drive  away  care.  However,  I 
hope  to  recruit  again  soon.  Frank  Classic,  of  Pembroke, 
has  promised  to  make  me  out  a  long  list  of  Greek  books ; 
so  I  will  write  directly  to  old  Square  Toes  and  enclose  the 
list,  tell  him  I  have  taken  them  up,  and  draw  on  him  for 
money  to  pay  the  bookseller's  bill.  Then  I  shall  be  rich 
again,  Jack  ;  and  perhaps  you  may  see  me  at  the  Shake- 
speare by  the  middle  of  next  week.  Till  then  I  am, 
dear  Jack,  yours,  T.  Flareit." 

And  that  reminds  me,  by  the  way,  that  an  undergraduate 
put  rather  a  poser  a  few  years  back  to  his  tutor.  "  Why," 
asked  this  ingenuous  youth,  "  may  I  not  visit  Newmarket 
Heath  when  the  highest  dignitary  of  the  Universit)' — the 
Chancellor  himself  (the  Duke  of  Devonshire^) — will  not 
only  be  present  but  will  be  running  horses  in  many  of  the 
races  ? "  Now  in  my  day,  and  I  suppose  from  time  im- 
memorial, Newmarket  at  race  time  was  tabooed  to  the 
undergraduates.  Every  man  had  to  show  in  Hall  each 
evening  during  the  meeting,  and  this  was  supposed  to  be 
proof  positive  that  he  had  not  been  to  the  races.  To 
"  show  in  Hall "  did  not  mean  necessarily  to  dine  there — 
all  you  had  to  do  was  to  appear  at  the  door  of  the  college 
dining-hall  in  academicals  before  6  o'clock,  and  hold  up 
your  cap  in  order  that  the  marker  might  prick  your  name 
down.  Now  1  need  hardly  point  out  that  nothing  could 
be  easier  than  to  see  the  last  race  on  the  Heath  and  reach 
the  college,  fourteen  miles  away,  before  6  P.M.  It  is  true 
there  was  often  some  reckless  driving  in  order  to  get  to 
college  in  time,  and  I  have  witnessed  and  shared  in  scenes 
*  This  was  written  before  the  death  of  the  late  Duke. 


152  SPORTING   STORIES 

before  the  Swan  at  Bottisham  which  I  shudder  now  to 
think  of.  But  there  is  a  moral  even  here,  for  no  one  who 
has  seen  a  half-drunken  Cantab  driving  a  pair  through 
Bottisham,  and  clearing  the  crowd  of  vehicles  without  a 
smash,  could  doubt  the  existence  of  a  Providence. 


CHAPTER  XX 

'VARSITY  STEEPLECHASE 

I  REMEMBER  very  well  the  excitement  among  us  sporting 
undergraduates  of  Cambridge  over  the  revival  of  steeple- 
chasing  at  Cottenham,  mainly  due  to  the  exertions  of  the 
Hon.  Henry  Wentworth  Fitzwilliam  and  his  friend,  Mr 
Nathan  de  Rothschild,  who  presented  the  'Varsity  with  a 
handsome  challenge  cup,  to  be  run  for  annually  over  three 
miles  of  fair  hunting  country.  I  remember,  too,  the  great 
Inter-'Varsity  Steeplechase  at  Aylesbury  in  1863,  when  the 
Light  Blues  scored  a  brilliant  triumph,  securing  first, 
second,  and  third  places.  J.  M.  Richardson  of  Magdalene, 
who  was  also  in  the  Eleven,  Charley  Wilder  of  Caius, 
Homer  Page  of  Trinity,  and  other  good  light-weights 
whom  I  knew  well,  are  all  now,  alas  !  gone  over  to  the 
majority. 

Touching  the  old  'Varsity  Steeplechases  and  their  first 
establishment,  an  amusing  story  is  told  of  Professor  Neate, 
Professor  of  Political  Economy  at  Oxford,  and  at  one  time 
M.P.  for  that  city.  The  Dons  and  heads  of  colleges  were 
determined  to  put  down  steeplechasing ;  but  old  Neate 
stood  up  for  the  undergraduates,  and,  to  show  his  contempt 
for  their  rulers,  entered  his  own  horse  for  one  of  the 
principal  races,  and  named  him  "Vice-Chancellor."  The 
day  of  the  race  came,  and  great  doubts  were  raised  as  to 
who  would  be  the  jockey  to  steer  the  noted  quadruped, 
when,  to  the  astonishment  of  everybody,  the  Professor 
himself  appeared  in  a  top-hat,  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
black  trousers.  Amidst  shouts  of  laughter,  he  took  several 
fences  well,  till  they  came  to  the  famous  water-jump, 
which  his  horse  first  refused,  and  then  fell  into  the  middle 
of  it  with  his  rider.     The  Professor  went  no  farther,  but 

153 


154  SPORTING    STORIES 

consoled  himself  by  saying  he  had  made  his  protest,  and 
vindicated  the  rights  of  the  students  to  enjoy  a  manly 
sport. 

There  was  a  very  severe  race  at  Aylesbury  between 
Messrs  J.  Allgood  (Captain  Barlow)  and  Burton,  now  of 
Daventry,  who  rode  two  well-known  chasers,  Zanga  and 
Spangle.  Approaching  the  last  fence  together,  they  rose 
simultaneously  and  cannoned  in  the  air.  The  pace  they 
were  going  upset  both  horses,  and  the  riders  were  thrown 
in  opposite  directions.  Both  were  picked  up  insensible ;  but 
the  Captain  recovered  after  a  few  minutes,  remounted  his 
horse,  and  struggled  on,  just  managing  to  hang  on  until 
past  the  post. 

A  dangerous  fence  was  thought  to  be  absolutely  necessary 
in  those  days  on  a  good  steeplechase  course.  There  was 
generally  but  one  race,  or  at  the  most  two,  in  the  day,  and 
those  who  selected  the  line  arranged  that  the  farmers'  race 
should  start  from  a  hill  at  Pitchott,  about  six  miles  from 
the  town,  and  should  finish  in  a  small  enclosure  about  two 
miles  from  Aylesbury.  The  last  fence  was  absolutely 
unjumpable  at  any  time  ;  but  after  a  horse  had  been  bustled 
along  for  four  miles,  it  need  not  be  wondered  at  that  this 
fence  should  be  designated  "  a  corker."  The  race  was  for 
;^ioo,  given  by  Baron  Rothschild  for  farmers  over  whose 
lands  the  hounds  ran.  The  course  was  only  marked  out 
by  an  occasional  flag  placed  in  a  hedge,  and  Lhe  riders  had 
to  find  their  way  as  best  they  could ;  there  was  no  showing 
them  over  the  course  beforehand.  It  is  difficult  to  believe 
what  a  natural  course  was  in  those  days,  accustomed  as 
we  are  to  the  well-formed  and  neatly  trimmed  fences  of 
Kempton,  Lingfield,  and  Sandown ;  but  this  last  fence 
should  be  seen  to  enable  men  of  the  present  day  to  com- 
prehend what  a  cross-country  horse  and  his  rider  had  to 
negotiate — which  is  a  very  expressive  and  proper  term. 
After  the  brook,  they  crossed  a  macadamised  country  road 
(which  had  just  enough  ditch  on  each  side  to  throw  a  horse 
down),  going  over  about  two  hundred  yards  of  rough  grass, 
and  arriving  at  the  big  double  into  the  last  field.  First,  a 
wide  ditch  with  a  stiff  fence  into  a  wide  landing-place, 
with  rotten  stumps,  and  big  elm  trees  growing  at  intervals, 


VARSITY   STEEPLECHASE         155 

making  it  more  like  a  spinney  than  a  hedge  ;  then  another 
fence,  with  a  big  yawning  ditch  beyond. 

I  saw  this  so-called  race  won  by  Vanish,  a  useful, 
racer-looking,  well-bred  nag,  belonging  to  a  farmer  named 
Harris,  living  at  Hampdon,  on  the  Chiltern  Hills.  The 
winner  was  so  distressed  that,  although  he  managed  to 
jump  the  first  hedge  and  land  on  the  bank,  he  could 
scarcely  stand,  and  some  bystanders  assisted  in  getting  him 
into  the  second  ditch,  where  the  rider  dismounted,  then 
remounted,  and  slowly  cantered  between  the  flags.  The 
second  horse  then  appeared  on  the  scene,  was  pushed  into 
the  first  ditch,  and  fell,  utterly  beaten,  on  the  landing-side , 
after  a  few  minutes  he  rose,  and,  riderless,  got  into  the 
second  ditch.  With  great  difficulty  he  was  pulled  out,  his 
jockey  mounted,  while  three  men  on  each  side  propped  him 
up,  and  the  poor  brute  crawled  feebly  between  the  flags, 
and  obtained  the  second  money.  After  waiting  some  time, 
no  one  else  appearing  although  twelve  had  started,  the 
judge  with  his  friends  left  the  field,  proceeding  homewards 
in  a  fly.  The  crowd  were  returning  along  the  road,  which 
adjoins  the  last  three  fields,  amongst  them  the  veteran  John 
Brown  of  Tring,  who  has  since  died  at  the  age  of  ninety- 
three,  when  somebody  said,  "  Muster  Brown,  there  ain't 
been  anybody  claiming  the  £io  for  the  third  horse  ?  "  The 
old  man  rode  back  with  some  friends  about  half  a  mile, 
where  he  had  left  off  beaten,  and,  as  his  horse  had  some- 
what recovered  his  wind,  he  set  him  going,  came  up  to  the 
terrible  double,  got  safely  over,  calling  upon  several  people 
to  witness  that  he  had  fairly  finished  the  course,  and 
claimed  the  iJ'io  for  third  money,  which,  in  the  end,  was 
awarded  to  him. 

At  the  Aylesbury  Steeplechases  of  1848  a  match  was 
decided  between  a  mare  called  Clementina  and  a  horse 
called  Sailor.  Approaching  the  dreaded  brook,  Clemen- 
tina's jockey  fairly  funked,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  grass 
field  threw  himself  off  his  mount,  and  left  the  mare  to  her- 
self. An  undergraduate  named  Burlton,  in  a  most  plucky 
manner,  rushed  forward,  caught  the  mare,  vaulted  into  the 
vacant  saddle,  sent  her  at  a  rattling  pace  at  the  brook,  and, 
clearing   the   water,   challenged    Sailor    close    home,   and 


156  SPORTING   STORIES 

passed  the  winning-post  first.  Although  Burlton  drew  the 
weight,  the  decision  was  given  against  his  winning,  and 
Sailor  was  awarded  the  race. 

It  was  at  Aylesbury  that  the  Marquis  of  Waterford,  "  the 
mad  Marquis,"  indulged  in  one  of  his  freaks.  On  this 
occasion  he  brought  his  horse  upstairs  into  the  dining- 
room.  The  horse  was  led  up  the  garden  steps,  which  were 
very  steep,  and  taken  into  the  dining-room,  where  some 
apples  and  biscuits  were  given  him.  It  was  useless  to 
attempt  his  descent  by  the  same  stairs,  so  steep  were  they, 
so  he  was  led  by  the  corridor  to  the  front  staircase.  The 
floor  of  the  passage  was  polished  oak,  and,  although  carpeted 
in  the  middle,  the  horse  slipped  badly,  and  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  refused  to  move.  At  last  he  began  kicking,  and 
smashed  the  passage  windows,  soon  clearing  a  ring  behind 
him.  Eventually,  when  a  little  quieted,  he  was  blindfolded, 
and,  once  he  began  to  descend  he  could  not  stop,  and 
blundered  down  into  the  entrance-hall,  having  done  himself 
no  injury,  and — excepting  to  a  few  balusters  and  some 
windows — but  little  to  the  house.  This  was  the  first  attempt 
that  had  been  made  at  bringing  a  horse  upstairs. 

A  similar  feat,  however,  was  carried  out  with  more 
success  a  few  years  later  in  the  very  same  room.  The 
conversation  turning  to  the  feat  recorded  above,  an  Oxford 
man,  a  very  fine  horseman,  turned  to  old  Charlie  Symonds 
and  said,  "  I  believe,  Charlie,  the  little  grey  would  come  up 
these,  or  any  other  stairs."  It  was  asked  if  they  might  try, 
and,  permission  being  granted,  a  lumbering  noise  was  soon 
heard  on  the  stairs,  and  in  walked  the  gallant  grey.  After 
being  walked  round  the  table,  the  horse,  led  by  a  halter, 
was  induced  to  jump  over  the  backs  of  a  couple  of  chairs. 
Then  J.  Leech  Manning,  a  sporting  farmer  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, said  he  would  undertake  to  ride  him  over  the 
dinner-table  (it  should  be  mentioned  that  dinner  was  still 
in  progress),  and,  jumping  on  to  the  bare-backed  horse,  he 
rode  him  up  into  the  corner  of  the  room,  which  was  about 
forty  feet  long  by  twenty-two  wide.  The  table  having 
been  slightly  slued  round.  Manning  struck  the  horse  with 
his  heel  and  sent  him  flying  over  ;  then  he  turned  him  and 
sent  him  back  again. 


'VARSITY    STEEPLECHASE         157 

The  man  who  first  suggested  the  feat,  a  well-known 
North  Country  clergyman,  then  attempted  it.  The  horse 
just  cleared  the  table,  but  caught  one  of  his  heels  on  the 
edge,  and,  pulling  the  cloth  over,  smashed  some  plates  and 
glasses.  Of  course,  a  dozen  others  wished  to  try,  but 
enough  had  been  done,  and  the  veto  was  put  on  any  more 
displays  of  circus-riding.  How  was  the  horse  to  be  got 
down  ?  The  corridor  already  mentioned  was  traversed ; 
but,  on  coming  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  nothing  would 
induce  the  horse  to  put  a  foot  on  to  the  first  step,  although 
he  was  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  A  learned  Q.  C,  staying  in 
the  house,  suggested  the  original  solution  of  the  difficulty, 
viz.  to  blindfold  him,  and  then  to  take  him  to  the  end  of 
the  corridor,  and  lead  him  steadily  along  without  stopping 
a  moment.  This  advice  was  immediately  acted  upon,  and, 
the  horse  coming  along  freely  enough,  began  to  go  down 
the  stairs,  but,  getting  frightened,  stumbled  and  fell  on  his 
knees,  but  did  not  cease  to  scramble  on.  The  two  men 
who  held  him  by  the  head,  soothed  him,  and  in  the  end  he 
landed  safe  in  the  entrance-hall,  breaking,  however,  three 
or  four  of  the  carved  oak  balusters  in  the  course  of  his 
descent. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

OLD-TIME  ECCENTRICS  OF  SPORT 

I  WAS  talking  the  other  day  to  an  old  sportsman  whom  I 
had  not  seen  for  many  years,  comparing  notes  of  our 
recollections  of  the  sport  and  sportsmen  of  the  past.  "  I'll 
tell  you,"  he  said,  "  one  thing  I  note  particularly  about  the 
men  of  the  present  day  ;  there's  little  or  none  of  the  eccen- 
tricity, or  individuality,  if  you  prefer  it,  which  was  such  a 
pleasing  relief  to  the  monotonous  groove  into  which 
humanity  in  the  lump  is  so  apt  to  run."  And  with  that  he 
began  recalling  memories  of  the  peculiarities  of  these 
eccentric  sportsmen  of  the  past. 

At  Harrow,  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  a  Mr  William 
Bean  was  as  great  a  terror  to  the  farmers  as  the  Wild  Hunts- 
man to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Hartz  Mountains.  Though 
he  kept  a  pack  of  hounds,  his  ruthless  trespasses  raised 
every  hand  against  him.  In  vain  did  farmers  lock  their 
gates  and  pile  hurdles  against  them  and  lie  in  ambush  with 
pitchforks.  One  farmer  watched  till  nearly  dusk,  and 
then  heard  the  hounds  go  by  as  he  sat  at  tea.  He  was  so 
astonished  that  he  afterwards  asked  Bill  Bean  in  confidence 
how  he  managed  to  hunt  in  the  dark.  "Didn't  you  see 
me  ? "  was  the  reply ;  "  we  ride  with  a  bull's-eye  on  each 
stirrup  and  one  on  our  breast-plates,  so  we  can  go  as  well 
by  night  as  by  day."  Well  might  the  farmers  say  after 
that,  "  There  goes  Bull's-eye  Bill ;  it's  no  use  trying  to  stop 
him." 

Sometimes  Mr  Bean  would  hunt  with  a  red  nose  of 
enormous  dimensions,  a  fiery  red  moustache,  and  with  red 
wafers  stuck  on  his  cheeks  to  conceal  his  identity.  Notices 
not  to  trespass  were  sent  him  by  every  post;  indignation 
meetings  were  held,  and  it  was  resolved  that  Bull's-eye  Bill 

158 


OLD-TIME  ECCENTRICS  OF  SPORT    159 

must  and  should  be  put  down.  So  one  day  when  that 
gentleman  was  at  home  at  Willesden,  some  nine  or  ten 
farmers,  each  bearing  a  notice  in  his  hand,  presented  them- 
selves before  him.  He  received  each  with  courtesy,  took 
the  notices  as  they  were  presented,  and  marked  them 
severally  with  a  pencil.  When  these  had  all  been  served, 
a  paper  containing  a  precis  of  their  united  contents  and  the 
names  of  the  deputation  was  handed  to  him.  "  This  shall 
receive  my  very  best  attention,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  very 
gravely ;  and,  thinking  they  had  at  last  nailed  the  demon 
huntsman,  the  deputation  went  away  rejoicing. 

Very  short-lived  indeed  was  their  satisfaction.  No 
sooner  had  they  departed  than  Mr  Bean,  with  his 
lieutenant,  planned  a  drag-hunt  for  the  morrow,  which  went 
through  the  heart  of  every  farm  named  in  the  round  robin, 
and  he  carried  it  out  with  an  audacity  he  had  never  before 
displayed.  "  What  business  have  I  to  be  here  ?  "  he  cried 
to  the  first  farmer  who  tried  to  bar  his  way.  "  I  have  come 
on  purpose  to  be  pulled  up.  You  thought  yourselves 
precious  clever,  and  that  you  had  got  me  fast,  but  I  have 
got  you  instead.  I've  got  all  your  signatures ;  you  don't 
know  what  you've  signed,  but  I  do.  I've  had  counsel's 
opinion,  and  I  can  indict  you  all  for  a  conspiracy,  and,  if 
you  attempt  to  interfere  with  me,  I'll  do  it."  After  that 
he  worked  his  own  sweet  will  for  the  remainder  of  the 
season. 

A  Cheshire  parson  of  the  old  school  at  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century  was  Griff  Lloyd,  rector  of  Christleton, 
near  Chester.  Liverpool  Races  Griff  seldom  missed,  and  he 
always  made  one  at  the  annual  race  banquet  given  by  a 
sporting  man  known  from  his  great  size  as  the  "  Double 
Dandy,"  for  he  was  so  enormous  that  when  he  travelled  he 
had  to  take  two  places  in  the  mail.  In  this  connection  a 
good  story  was  told  against  him.  A  new  servant  having 
received  instructions  to  take  the  customary  two  seats,  and 
not  understanding  that  it  was  his  master  who  required 
double  accommodation,  took  one  place  inside  and  one  out. 

Parson  Griffs  powers  of  endurance  were  wonderful.  He 
would  think  nothing  of  riding  thirty  miles  out,  thirty  miles 
back,  and  then  going  out  to  dinner.     More  than  once  his 


160  SPORTING   STORIES 

parishioners  were  disappointed  (?)  of  the  evening  service  by 
a  notice  on  the  church  doors  that  the  parson  had  been 
obliged  to  start  that  afternoon  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  a 
distant  "  meet." 

Another  sporting  cleric  was  Parson  Harvey,  who  was 
wont  to  hang  about  Tattersalls  on  sale  days,  Tattersall 
would  never  have  him  awakened  as  he  sat  there  snoring, 
with  the  butt-end  of  a  pound  of  mutton  chops  sticking  out 
of  his  pocket.  "  Let  him  sleep,  poor  fellow,"  he  would 
say ;  "  it's  a  sweeter  place  for  him  than  his  garret  in 
Pimlico."  Harvey  had  formerly  held  a  living  in  the  gift 
of  the  celebrated  racing  and  hunting  man,  Mr  Vernon. 
Long  sermons  were  Vernon's  abhorrence.  He  had  pre- 
sented the  church  with  a  hollow  sounding-board,  which 
was  placed  immediately  above  the  pulpit,  and  could  be 
raised  or  lowered  by  a  secret  spring  fixed  in  his  pew,  which 
was  just  beneath  ;  and  directly  he  found  the  homily  growing 
tedious  he  would  press  the  spring,  down  would  come  the 
board  like  an  extinguisher,  and  beneath  it  the  preacher 
would  disappear  like  a  harlequin. 

Vernon  it  was  who,  finding  that  poachers  were  not 
deterred  by  the  usual  notices,  set  up  boards  upon  which, 
in  large  letters,  were  the  words,  "  Anyone  found  trespassing 
on  these  grounds  will  be  immediately  spiffiicated."  The 
unknown  word,  suggesting  unimaginable  tortures,  struck 
more  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  poachers  than  all  the  steel 
traps  and  spring-guns  that  had  before  menaced  them,  and 
for  a  long  time  the  birds  remained  undisturbed.  Parson 
Harvey  was  just  the  spiritual  adviser  for  such  a  squire — 
one  who  could  with  equal  facility  follow  a  fox,  crack  a 
bottle,  or  preach  a  sermon.  But  unfortunately  the  bishop 
had  not  the  same  appreciation  of  these  varied  qualities  as 
had  the  patron  ;  and  thus  it  was  that  the  poor  parson,  still 
orthodox  to  his  tastes,  became  a  waif  and  a  loiterer  at 
"  the  Corner." 

Even  the  racecourse  oddities  have  almost  disappeared, 
and  such  a  personage  as  Matthias  Elderton  (better  known 
as  "  Jerry  "),  the  list-seller,  would  now  be  an  impossibility. 
He  was  the  king  of  the  card-sellers,  and  a  sort  of  Jack 
Pudding,  who  made  fun  for  the  lookers-on  during  the  intervals 


OLD-TIME   ECCENTRICS   OF   SPORT   161 

of  racing.  With  a  wig  and  cocked  hat  on  his  head,  and  an 
old  ragged  uniform,  sometimes  naval,  sometimes  military, 
his  fingers  covered  with  brass  rings,  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
picked  up  from  some  luncheon-party  stuck  in  his  eye,  he 
would  strut  up  to  some  grandee,  tap  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  with  the  affectation  of  an  aristocratic  drawl,  say, 
"  How  de  do,  my  lord,  how's  her  ladyship,  and  the  little 
honourables  ?  "  or  he  would  request  him  to  take  his  arm, 
with  "  Let  me  show  your  lordship  a  little  life ! "  and  my 
lord  would  laugh  and  humour  the  joke,  Jerry  made  no 
bones  even  of  accosting  the  Prince  Regent  and  holding 
out  his  hand  to  him,  which  the  Prince  did  not  disdain  to 
shake ;  and  Jerry  used  to  talk,  like  Brummel,  about  "  his 
fat  friend." 

Jerry  made  a  good  bit  of  money  during  the  season, 
which  he  invested  in  jewellery,  watches,  chains,  etc.,  and 
hawked  about  on  the  courses  and  elsewhere.  On  one 
occasion  this  traffic  got  poor  Jerry  into  trouble.  A 
jeweller's  shop  had  been  plundered  at  Manchester,  and  the 
suspicions  of  the  police  fell  upon  the  card-seller  as  being 
connected  with  it ;  so  he  was  arrested,  and  such  a  number 
of  valuables  were  found  upon  his  vagabond  person  that  he 
was  locked  up. 

And  now  Jerry's  popularity  came  to  his  aid.  Squire 
Osbaldeston,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  it,  vowed  he  would 
have  Jerry  out  of  gaol  within  twenty-four  hours.  The  next 
morning,  when  he  was  brought  up  before  the  magistrate, 
the  squire,  with  many  of  his  racing  friends,  was  in  the  court 
to  speak  for  the  poor  fellow's  honesty,  and  they  gave  him 
such  a  character  that  he  was  at  once  released.  Among 
his  own  class  he  was  equally  popular.  They  had  already 
started  a  subscription  for  his  defence  ;  and  when  he  came 
out,  a  free  man,  he  was  lifted  upon  the  shoulders  of  his 
friends  and  carried  through  the  streets  in  triumph.  Jerry 
died  in  harness  as  he  had  lived.  During  the  Goodwood 
Meeting  of  1848  he  was  standing  on  a  coach,  offering  his 
cards,  and  exchanging  his  usual  chaff,  when  the  horses 
shied  and  upset  the  vehicle.  The  poor  card-seller  was 
beneath  it ;  he  was  picked  up  in  a  fearfully  crushed  con- 
dition, and  conveyed  to  the  Chichester  Infirmary,  where  he 

II 


162  SPORTING   STORIES 

expired  a  few  hours  afterwards.  Before  the  meeting  broke 
up  seventy  pounds  were  collected  among  Jerry's  friends 
for  his  widow. 

Another  Turf  character  was  "Snuffling"  or  "Donkey 
Jemmy  "  ;  he  used  to  wear  a  huge  yellow  wig,  and  made  a 
living  braying  like  a  donkey.  Sixpence  a  bray  was  his 
charge  ;  but  he  would  not  exercise  his  accomplishment  for 
any  but  "carriage  folk."  "I  does  the  donkey  for  the 
haristocracy,  and  not  the  common  people,"  he  would  con- 
temptuously say,  when  any  unknown  pedestrian  bid  for  a 
taste  of  his  quality.  But  if  the  "  haristocracy  "  did  not  dub 
up  the  sixpence  fast  enough.  Jemmy  would  pursue  the 
carriages  with  the  most  horrible  "  hee-haws "  until,  to 
save  the  drums  of  their  ears,  the  occupants  threw  him 
the  coins. 

Many  old  Turfites  will  also  remember  a  thin,  middle-aged 
man  who  used  to  appear  in  woman's  attire  with  ribbons  in 
his  hair,  a  faded  yellow  fan  in  one  hand,  and  a  green  and 
pink  parasol  in  the  other,  who  began  a  dialogue  commencing 
with,  "  Well,  Lady  Jane,  how  are  the  flowers  to-day  ?  I've 
seen  the  gardener,"  etc.,  followed  up  by  the  song  of  The 
Hold  Harm  Cheer,  each  stanza  being  illustrated  by  a  mock 
fandango. 

Scotland  has  produced  its  fair  share  of  eccentric  sports- 
men— Lord  Kennedy  and  the  Earl  of  Glasgow,  for  instance. 
Of  them,  however,  I  have  written  elsewhere,  so  will  take 
as  an  example  Captain  Wemyss,  sometime  Master  of  the 
Fife  Foxhounds.  He  was  one  of  those  rough  sea-dogs 
that  Smollett  loved  to  depict,  and  notorious  for  his  fondness 
for  the  cat-o'-nine-tails.  "  But,"  said  one  of  his  sailors  once, 
"  the  Captain's  got  such  a  winning  way  with  him  that  you 
can't  help  liking  him.  I  was  loitering  on  the  Hard  one 
day  after  I  had  been  paid  off,  when  I  saw  him,  and,  as  he 
had  often  made  my  back  smart,  I  tried  to  give  him  a  wide 
berth;  but  he  crowded  on  all  sail  after  me,  and  bawled  out, 

'  Here,   Jack    Smith,   you    d d    ill-looking,   blear-eyed, 

squinting   ,  ain't   you    going    to  enter  on   board    my 

ship?'     Well,  arter  that,  I  couldn't  help  myself" 

When  Wemyss  retired  from  the  Navy,  he  went  to  reside 
in  Scotland,  and  gave  himself  up  to  field  sports.     In  the 


OLD-TIME   ECCENTRICS   OF   SPORT  163 

hunting-field  he  was  remarkable  for  stentorian  lungs  and 
fondness  for  laying  on  the  whip  —  a  memento  of  the 
old  cat-o'-nine-tails  days.  Then  he  was  seized  with  a 
desire  for  Parliamentary  distinction,  and  was  nominated 
for  the  Borough  of  Cupar.  But  he  talked  to  the  electors 
very  much  in  the  same  winning  way  as  he  had  to  his 
sailors. 

"  I  say,  Cap'n,"  shouted  one  of  the  crowd  he  was  address- 
ing from  the  hustings,  "  how  do  you  mean  to  vote  about 
the  Bishops  ?  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you idiot ;  what  do  you  know 

about  Bishops  ?  " 

"  I  say,  Cap'n,"  another  bawled,  "  are  you  for  annual 
elections  ?  " 

"  No,  you  d d  fool,  nor  would  you  if  you  had  to  pay 

for  them." 

However,  his  electors  were  as  incapable  of  withstanding 
his  winning  ways  as  the  sailors,  for  they  returned  him. 
He  expressed  his  opinions  freely  even  in  church,  and  when 
the  parson,  a  friend  of  his,  made  a  good  point  in  the  sermon, 
would  call  out,  "  Well  done,  Harry,"  and  remark  under  his 

breath   to    his   next  neighbour,   "D d    good."     When 

out  hunting  one  day,  the  fox  having  been  killed  in  a  turn- 
pike road,  he  saw  a  farmer,  who  had  been  beaten  by  the 
pace  come  sailing  away  over  a  cornfield. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  riding  over  that 
wheat  ?  "  he  roared. 

"  Weel,  I  ken  I  can  come  as  I  like,  as  it's  my  ain." 

"  Then,  if  it's  your  own,  d n  your  eyes,  you  ought  to 

set  a  better  example." 

Of  Henry  Egerton,  Earl  of  Bridgwater,  a  Parisian 
journal  of  1826  gives  the  following  picture:  "  Those  who 
have  once  seen  this  meagre  personage  drag  himself  along, 
supported  by  two  huge  lackeys,  with  his  sugar-loaf  hat 
slouched  down  over  his  eyes,  cannot  fail  to  recognise  him' 
An  immense  fortune  enables  him  to  gratify  his  most 
extravagant  caprices.  If  he  be  lent  a  book,  he  carries 
his  politeness  so  far  as  to  have  it  conveyed  home  in  a 
carriage.  Two  of  his  finest  horses  are  harnessed  to  one 
of  his  chariots,  and  the  volume,  reclining  at  ease  in   my 


164  SPORTING   STORIES 

lord's  landau,  attended  by  footmen  in  costly  livery,  arrives 
at  the  door  of  its  astounded  owner." 

In  his  younger  days,  the  Earl  of  Bridgwater  had  been 
a  keen  sportsman,  and  in  his  old  age  his  love  of  dogs  led 
him  into  extraordinary  eccentricities.  In  the  words  of  the 
writer  before  quoted,  "  His  carriage  is  frequently  seen  filled 
with  dogs.  He  bestows  great  care  on  their  feet,  and  orders 
them  boots,  for  which  he  pays  as  dearly  as  for  his  own. 
He  puts  on  a  pair  of  new  boots  every  day ;  carefully  pre- 
serving those  he  has  once  worn,  and,  ranging  them  in 
order,  takes  great  pleasure  in  observing  each  day  how 
much  of  the  year  has  passed  by  the  number  of  pairs. 
His  table,  though  he  scarcely  ever  entertains  any  company, 
is  constantly  set  out  with  a  dozen  covers  for  his  dogs,  who 
daily  partake  of  my  lord's  dinner  seated  in  arm-chairs,  each 
with  a  napkin  round  his  neck  and  a  servant  to  attend  to 
his  wants." 

No  wonder  that  Frenchmen  thought  all  Englishmen  mad 
when  there  were  settled  in  Paris  such  strange  specimens 
as  this  erratic  earl.  Colonel  Thornton,  Lord  Henry  Seymour, 
and  others  of  the  like  kidney ;  however,  the  feeling  was 
returned  in  full  by  the  humbler  order  of  Briton.  Lord 
William  Lennox's  story  being  apropos  : — 

"  Whilst,"  said  he,  "  I  was  an  attach^  to  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  then  Ambassador  to  Louis  XVIII.,  his  Grace 
was  invited  to  shoot  at  Fontaincbleau,  and  kindly  permitted 
me  to  accompany  him.  After  breakfast  at  the  palace  we 
proceeded  to  the  rendezvous.  The  party  consisted  of  the 
Dues  de  Berry,  d'Angouleme,  and  de  Grammont,  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  and  myself.  The  '  Iron  Duke '  was 
attended  by  an  English  gamekeeper,  who  seemed  delighted 
at  his  master's  prowess,  and  who  looked  with  disdain  at 
the  royal  sportsman.  '  That  'ere  Dam-goulan  knows  as 
much  about  shooting  as  my  old  missus,'  he  said,  addressing 
a  groom  who  was  carrying  Wellington's  ammunition. 
'  He's  only  killed  four  brace  of  pheasants,  and  he  would 
have  doubled  the  quantity  if  he  had  attended  to  his 
head  keeper's  orders  and  pulled  whenever  he  was  told 
to  puil.' 

'What  d'ye  mean  by  pull7'  said  the  other,  who  had 


OLD-TIME   ECCENTRICS   OF  SPORT  165 

picked  up  a  smattering  of  French  ;  '  when  he  cried  pull  he 
doesn't  mean  pull— pull  {poule)  in  their  outlandish  gibberish 
means  hen,  and  he  mentioned  it  as  a  caution.'  At  this 
point  the  first  speaker  became  incoherent,  and,  muttering 
something  about  parleyvooing  frogs,  he  subsided  for  the 
rest  of  the  day." 


CHAPTER   XXII 

SOME  HUMOURS  OF  THE  HUNTING- 
FIELD 

I  HAVE  no  doubt  that  some  of  my  readers  know  the  story 
which  the  late  Bernal  Osborne  used  to  the  tell. 

"  A  blacksmith,  very  early  one  morning,  was  going 
through  a  plantation  leading  to  a  gentleman's  house  to 
shoe  some  horses,  and  in  the  roadway  a  fox  was  sitting 
with  one  fore-paw  held  up,  his  ears  laid  back,  and  his 
brush  draggled.  He  did  not  move,  but  looked  up  beseech- 
ingly at  the  blacksmith,  who  stooped  down,  looked  at  his 
foot,  and  found  a  gathering;  so  he  took  a  horse-nail  from 
his  box,  pricked  the  part,  and  let  the  matter  out.  It  gave 
the  fox  immediate  relief,  and  he  nodded  his  head  and  trotted 
off  into  the  wood.  The  next  morning  when  the  blacksmith 
opened  his  door  he  found  a  couple  of  fine  fat  fowls  laid 
there.  He  took  them  inside,  and  the  next  morning  there 
was  a  couple  of  good  fat  ducks,  and  this,  begorra,  sor, 
went  on  for  some  weeks,  and  one  day  there  was  a  fine 
young  goose.  Well,  sor,  the  last  winter  there  was  a  farmer 
out  with  the  hounds,  and  when  the  fox  broke  covert,  it  was 
this  same  fellow,  and  the  farmer  viewed  him  away,  and  gave 
the  '  Tally  ho ! '  and  it  was  this  man's  hen-roost  that  the 
fox  went  to  each  night  till  he  had  cleared  out  most  of  the 
poultry;  and  this  was  how  the  fox  got  upsides  with  his 
enemy,  and  repaid  his  friend." 

This  reminds  me  of  one  told  by  Mrs  S.  C.  Hall,  who, 
when  visiting  a  certain  Tim  Flanigan,  was  told  that  one 
night  a  fox  entered  his  cabin  and  coolly  sat  down  by  the 
embers,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  began  smoking  as  naturally  as 
a  man.  The  listener  expressed  her  doubts  as  to  its  truth  ; 
and    when    Tim    said,    "  The  fox  took  up  the  newspaper 

1 66 


HUMOURS   OF   HUNTING-FIELD     167 

and  began  reading  it,"  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
said,  "  What  should  the  fox  want  to  read  the  paper  for  ?  " 
Tim  replied,  "  How  the  divil  was  he  to  know  where  the 
hounds  met  if  he  didn't  ?  " 

Apropos  of  hunting,  I  hope  I  may  be  excused  for 
running  a  good  old  chestnut  to  earth  here,  and  giving  the 
true  version  of  a  story  which  has  been  told  with  many 
variations,  all  more  or  less  divergent  from  the  truth.  The 
real  hero  of  the  tale  was  a  well-known  sporting  parson, 
the  Rev.  Christopher  Erie,  Rector  of  Hardwich,  and 
brother  of  Lord  Chief  Justice  Erie,  Sir  Thomas  Digby 
Aubray,  who  lived  at  Oving,  a  parish  adjoining  that  of 
Mr  Erie,  had  invited  the  Bishop  of  Oxford  (Dr  Wilber- 
force)  to  dinner,  and  several  of  the  neighbouring  gentry 
and  clergy  to  meet  him,  amongst  others  the  Reverend 
Christopher.  Now  the  reverend  gentleman  was  very  fond 
of  going  to  see  the  hounds  meet,  and,  pottering  along 
through  a  line  of  gates,  he  generally  managed  to  see  a  good 
deal  of  them.  The  Bishop,  hearing  of  this,  thought  it 
would  be  a  good  opportunity  to  get  a  rise  out  of  Mr  Erie, 
and  leading  the  conversation  to  that  topic,  said  he  had  a 
great  objection  to  his  clergy  riding  to  hounds,  and,  with 
a  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye,  alluded  pointedly  to  the  worthy 
Rector  of  Hardwich.  Mr  Erie,  in  reply,  said  that  he  saw 
no  harm  in  it,  and  that  people  who  indulged  in  the  carnal 
enjoyment  of  dancing  were  equally  reprehensible,  and  that 
he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  allude  to  a  statement  in  the 
Court  Circular  of  the  past  week,  that  amongst  the  guests 
at  Her  Majesty's  State  Ball  at  Buckingham  Palace  was  the 
Bishop  of  Oxford!  A  laugh  ensued,  and  his  lordship 
replied,  "  Yes,  Mr  Erie,  but  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  go  into 
the  room  where  the  dancers  are."  "  Exactly  my  case,  my 
lord,"  said  the  parson  ;  "  for  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  be  in 
the  same  field  as  the  hounds." 

One  of  the  grandest  sportsmen  of  his  time  was  the 
Rev.  John  Russell,  of  Devon,  better  known  as  "Jack 
Russell,"  who,  unlike  many  of  his  cloth  who  have  been 
devoted  to  sport,  was  an  equally  good  parson. 

On  one  occasion,  when  riding  Cottager,  and  hunting 
with  a  new  draft  from  the  Hambledon  Hounds,  he  found 


168  SPORTING   STORIES 

a  fox  near  Beauford  Moor  and  pressed  him  in  covert  so 
sharply  that  he  turned  short  and  broke  away,  unknown  to 
Russell,  down  wind.  Losing  sight  of  the  pack,  and  fancy- 
ing he  viewed  a  tail-hound  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  moor, 
he  rode  there  and  found  an  Irish  packman,  Peter  Dougan 
by  name,  standing  on  a  bank,  and  blown  by  the  chase, 
but  still  staring  after  it  with  bated  breath  and  longing  eyes. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  hounds,  my  man  ? "  Russell  in- 
quired. 

"Iss,  your  honour;  they're  just  ahead,  running  like  a 
peal  of  bells." 

"  Then  jump  up  behind  me,  pack  and  all,"  said  Russell, 
charmed  with  the  man's  enthusiasm  for  hunting.  "  Jump 
up,  and  you  shall  see  a  bit  more  of  the  sport." 

"Bedad  then,"  said  Peter,  "that  I'll  do";  and  as 
Russell  pulled  Cottager  up  to  the  bank,  Peter  and  his  pack 
took  their  place  behind  the  cantle,  notwithstanding  the 
broad  hints  of  displeasure  displayed  by  the  horse,  which 
kicked  furiously,  never  stopping  till  he  had  fairly  floored 
Peter  and  his  pack. 

Not  long  after,  when  Russell  was  riding  his  horse 
Monkey,  Peter  again  met  him,  and  said  he  had  a  great 
favour  to  ask,  and  that  was,  that  he  would  allow  him  to 
ride  that  horse  over  a  five-barred  gate,  with  his  hands  tied 
behind  his  back,  his  face  to  the  horse's  tail,  and  without 
saddle  or  bridle.  "  And,"  said  Peter  entreatingly,  "  I'll 
give  ye  my  pack,  sir,  if  ye'll  let  me  do  it ;  and,  by  me 
sowl,  'tis  worth  five  pounds." 

Russell  inquired  why  he  was  so  anxious  to  do  this, 
pointing  out  to  him  the  danger. 

"  Faix,  your  honour,"  replied  Peter,  "  I  should  like  to  tell 
'em  what  I've  done  in  England  when  I  get  back  to  the 
Quid  Country." 

Monkey  with  hounds,  and  in  a  good  temper,  would  jump 
any  ordinary  five-barred  gate,  but  otherwise  wouldn't  rise  at 
a  fender.  "  Had  I  granted  his  request,"  said  Russell,  "  the 
horse  would  have  broken  Peter's  neck  for  a  certainty." 

Once,  when  he  brought  his  hounds  into  Cornwall  for  his 
annual  fortnight  there,  whilst  racing  their  fox  to  the 
boundary  fence  of  the  moor  above  Trebartha,  the  hounds 


HUMOURS   OF   HUNTING-FIELD     169 

viewed,  and  instantly,  as  if  by  naagic,  they  and  the  fox 
vanished  from  sight.  It  seemed  to  the  foremost  riders — 
Mr  Charles  Trelawney,  Mr  Phillips,  Mr  Harris,  Mr  Coryton, 
and  Mr  Tom  Hext  (who  was  the  first  to  view  him) — that 
the  earth  had  swallowed  them  up.  And  such  was  the 
case.  The  shaft  of  an  old  mine  lay  open,  and  they  had 
fallen  into  it. 

The  fox,  indeed,  with  the  activity  of  a  wild  beast,  had 
clambered  on  to  a  broken  beam  ;  but  three  of  the  leading 
hounds  were  swimming  about  in  the  dark  water  at  the 
bottom  of  the  mine,  some  seven  fathoms  deep ;  while  the 
rest  of  the  pack  had  stopped  short  of  the  abyss. 

"  Gone  to  ground  with  a  vengeance  !  "  exclaimed  Phillips, 
with  bitter  emphasis,  dreading  the  loss  of  his  hounds. 

In  a  few  minutes  some  miners  appeared  on  the  scene, 
but  not  a  man  of  them  dared  go  down.  Not  so,  however. 
Jack  Russell,  who,  with  a  knotted  rope  in  one  hand  and 
his  hunting-whip  in  the  other,  lowered  himself  to  the 
beam  on  which  the  fox  was  crouching.  Then  running 
the  thong  through  the  keeper  of  his  whip  and  fixing  the 
noose  round  the  animal's  neck,  he  shouted  to  those  above 
to  haul  him  up. 

"  Save  him,  Phillips ;  he  deserves  his  life,"  said  Russell, 
when  he  and  the  fox  had  safely  arrived  above  ground ;  but 
Phillips  firmly  said  "  No,"  and  tossed  him  to  the  hounds. 

Then,  to  save  the  three  brave  brutes  now  struggling  in 
the  pit,  Russell  again  prepared  to  descend  ;  but  Colonel 
(afterwards  Sir  Walter)  Gilbert  persuaded  a  miner,  by 
the  bribe  of  a  capful  of  silver,  to  go  down  with  a  rope 
round  his  waist  to  bring  the  hounds,  one  by  one,  safely 
"  to  bank." 

Russell  was  once  having  a  day  with  Sir  Walter  Carew's 
hounds,  when,  as  they  were  running  their  fox  sharply  near 
Romansleigh  village,  he  saw  the  fox  catch  up  a  large 
yellow  cat  in  his  mouth  and  carry  him  on  as  far  as  he 
could  view  him.  The  fox  was  killed,  but  what  became  of 
the  poor  cat  I  am  unable  to  say. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  PERILS  AND  PENALTIES  OF 
HUNTING 

Every  season  the  hunting-field  claims  its  victims.  Still, 
"  those  who  play  at  bowls  must  expect  rubbers,"  and  those 
who  follow  hounds  must  count  upon  falls.  But,  after  all, 
a  fall  in  the  hunting-field  is  not  necessarily  serious. 
Assheton  Smith  had  falls  without  end,  yet  he  never  broke 
a  bone.  Another  famous  fox-hunter,  Captain  John  White, 
was  less  fortunate,  and  broke  nearly  every  bone  in  his 
body ;  yet  these  accidents  only  made  him  ride  the  harder, 
and,  as  he  hunted  until  he  was  'j'j,  they  can  hardly  be  said 
to  have  shortened  his  days. 

The  odd  thing  is  that  most  of  the  fatal  accidents  in  the 
hunting-field  have  not  occurred  during  fast  runs  or  under 
circumstances  in  which  there  was  peril  to  life  and  limb. 
Whyte-Melville  met  his  death  when  quietly  trotting  from 
one  covert  to  another.  The  Earl  of  Cardigan,  leader  of 
the  charge  of  the  Six  Hundred,  was  thrown  from  a  restive 
colt  in  a  country  lane,  when  hounds  were  nowhere  near, 
and  broke  his  neck.  And  if  space  permitted  I  could  quote 
many  similar  instances. 

But  the  cry  against  the  danger  of  hunting  is  no  new 
thing.  Nearly  a  hundred  years  ago  Peter  Beckford  thus 
scornfully  discussed  the  objection  to  his  favourite  sport  on 
the  ground  of  the  alleged  dangers  attending  it : — 

"To  those  who  think  the  danger  which  attends  upon 
hunting  a  great  objection  to  the  pursuit  of  it  I  must  beg 
leave  to  observe  that  the  accidents  which  are  occasioned  by 
it  are  very  few.  I  will  venture  to  say  that  more  bad 
accidents  happen  to  shooters  in  one  year  than  to  those  who 
follow  the  hounds  in  seven.     The  most  famous  huntsman 

170 


PERILS   AND   PENALTIES  171 

of  his  time,  after  having  hunted  a  pack  of  hounds  unhurt 
for  several  years,  lost  his  life  at  last  by  a  fall  from  his  horse 
as  he  was  returning  home.  A  surgeon  of  my  acquaintance 
has  assured  me  that  in  thirty  years'  practice  in  a  sporting 
country  he  had  not  once  an  opportunity  of  setting  a  bone 
for  a  sportsman,  although  ten  packs  of  hounds  were  kept 
in  the  neighbourhood.  This  gentleman,  surely,  must  have 
been  much  out  of  luck,  or  hunting  cannot  be  so  dangerous 
as  it  is  thought." 

Another  objection  to  hunting  is  the  damage  done  to  the 
crops.  The  late  Mr  Delme  Radcliffe,  however,  stoutly 
maintained  that  this  was  a  popular  fallacy,  and  gave  the 
following  among  other  instances  of  the  benefits  which 
farmers  derived  from  the  trampling  of  their  fields  by  the 
followers  of  hounds. 

"  I  was  expressing,"  he  says,  "  my  opinion  upon  this  topic 
very  lately  to  Lord  Gage,  and  was  rejoiced  to  find  one 
so  competent  to  judge  of  agricultural  matters  thoroughly 
agreeing  with  me.  He  assured  me  that  on  his  estate  in 
Sussex  he  had  a  field  last  season  sown  with  a  peculiar  sort 
of  wheat  remarkable  for  its  tenderness,  and  on  that  account 
he  had  endeavoured  to  preserve  it,  but  found  this  impos- 
sible. The  hounds  frequently  ran  over  it,  and  upon  one 
occasion  killed  their  fox  in  the  centre,  followed,  of  course, 
by  every  horse  within  reach  of  the  scene.  To  his  surprise, 
the  crop  very  much  exceeded  his  utmost  expectations,  and 
was  thicker  and  finer  on  and  around  the  spot  where,  by 
the  death  of  the  fox,  it  had  been  more  trampled  upon  than 
in  any  other  part."  I  wish  that  all  farmers  would  see  the 
thing  in  the  same  light. 

Delme  Radcliffe  died  comparatively  recently,  and  yet 
when  one  comes  across  such  a  passage  as  this  in  his  well- 
known  book  The  Noble  Science,  he  seems  removed  from 
the  present  generation  by  a  century.  Writing  of  the  intro- 
duction of  railways,  he  says  :  — 

"  But  when  we  consider  the  magnitude  of  the  convulsion 
which  this  mighty  railway  delusion  will  effect;  the  thousands 
of  human  beings  thrown  out  of  employ;  the  incalculable 
diminution  in  the  number  of  horses,  and  the  consequent 
deficiency  in  demand  for  agricultural  produce — not  to  men- 


172  SPORTING   STORIES 

tion  the  enormous  deduction  from  the  revenue  consequent 
upon  the  aboHtion  of  the  post-horse  duties — when  we  think 
of  its  varied  and  multitudinous  bearings  upon  the  present 
state  of  society ;  and  add  to  all  this  the  fact  that  in  no 
quarter  of  the  globe  were  the  means  of  travelling  established 
on  so  admirable  a  basis  as  hitherto  in  this  country ;  that, 
like  the  dog  and  the  shadow,  we  are  about  to  cast  away 
the  substance  of  good  for  the  sake  of  catching  at  a  chance 
of  problematical  good,  in  the  opinion  of  some,  and  fraught 
with  positive  evil  in  the  estimation  of  many :  when  we 
reflect  on  these  things  we  cannot  but  wonder  at  the  blind- 
ness which  has  countenanced  the  growth  of  a  monster 
which  will  rend  the  vitals  of  those  by  whom  it  has  been 
fostered."  ^ 

Alas,  poor  prophet,  how  ludicrously  events  falsified  his 
predictions  in  his  own  lifetime  !  If  railways  have  inter- 
fered with  fox-hunting,  it  is  in  a  very  different  fashion  from 
what  the  "  Country  Squire  "  imagined, 

I  have  heard  the  scarcity  of  foxes  attributed  to  the  scale 
on  which  pheasants  are  now  preserved  for  big  shoots.  But 
I  am  bound  to  say  that,  at  any  rate  in  the  county  in  which 
I  reside,  the  proprietors  of  the  shootings  deal  very  fairly 
with  the  hunting-men. 

If  this  decrease  in  foxes  continues,  hunting-men  will 
have  to  fall  back  upon  the  much-despised  "  bag-man," 
which  I  would  remind  them  can  be  pursued  with  both 
economy  and  enthusiasm.  The  Rev.  Jack  Russell  brought 
the  hunting  of  bag-foxes  to  a  science,  on  the  same  principle 
as  the  hunting  of  carted  deer  adopted  by  the  Masters  of 
the  Royal  Buckhounds.  This  is  the  way  he  and  his  friend 
Mr  Templer  used  to  manage  with  their  bag-foxes. 

When  a  "  bag-man  "  was  to  be  turned  out,  it  was  always 
done  in  view  of  the  hounds,  Templer  standing  among  them 
with  his  hunting-watch  open  in  his  hand  ;  nor  was  a  hound 
permitted  to  stir  till  fair  law  had  been  allowed. 

The  business,  then,  was  to  save  the  fox  alive;  and 
whether  he  were  a  wild  fox  or  a  "  bag-man,"  such  was  the 
hard   riding,  and  such  the  obedience  of  the  hounds  to  a 

*  Much  the  same  sort  of  wild  talk  is  heard  at  present  with  regard  to 
motors. 


PERILS   AND   PENALTIES  173 

"  rate,"  that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  the  animal  was  picked 
up  before  them  without  injury.  Blood  was  a  finale  to  which, 
at  home,  they  were  never  treated,  and  yet  a  harder-driving 
lot  never  entered  a  covert.  But  as  "  Nimrod "  after  his 
visit  to  Stover  tells  us,  to  show  that  Mr  Templer's  hounds 
can  kill  foxes  when  suffered  to  do  so,  whilst  they  were  at 
North  Molton,  hunting  alternate  days  with  Mr  Fellowes's 
or  Sir  Arthur  Chichester's  hounds,  they  killed  three  brace 
of  foxes  in  four  days. 

And  excellent  sport  these  bag-foxes  afforded.  A  favourite 
"  bag-man,"  who  gave  them  many  a  good  run,  was  named 
the  "  Bold  Dragoon."  He  had  been  turned  out  in  the  Vale 
of  Teigngrace,  and  crossing  the  river  Teign,  then  flooded 
by  heavy  rains,  was  leading  the  pack  at  a  rattling  pace  in 
the  direction  of  Ugbrook  Park,  when  the  field  was  brought 
to  a  sudden  check  at  sight  of  a  brimming  river.  The  ford, 
known  to  a  few,  was  invisible,  and  the  only  bridge  was 
more  than  a  mile  away.  The  fate  of  the  "  Bold  Dragoon  " 
was  a  certainty  if  there  were  no  one  up  to  rate  the  hounds  ; 
and  his  Colossus  mare  was  scarcely  more  valued  by  Templer 
than  that  fox. 

"  Go  for  Jew's  Bridge,"  shouted  a  cautious  member  of 
the  hunt ;  "  that's  our  only  chance  of  catching  the  hounds." 
And  away  went  the  field  helter-skelter  in  that  direction — 
every  man  of  them  except  Templer. 

Seeing  a  flight  of  rails  close  to  the  river  bank,  and  con- 
cluding they  were  placed  there  to  prevent  cattle  from 
crossing  the  ford,  Templer  rode  the  mare  straight  at  them, 
thinking  to  land  perhaps  up  to  his  girths  in  the  stream. 
But  the  spot  proved  to  be  one  of  the  deepest  pools  in  the 
Teign.  Horse  and  rider  disappeared  ;  but  the  latter,  having 
been  an  expert  swimmer  at  Eton,  soon  came  to  the  surface, 
and,  striking  out  vigorously,  gained  the  opposite  bank. 
But  great  was  his  dismay  on  looking  round  to  find  that 
his  mare  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  ;  and,  for  some  seconds, 
Templer  felt  assured  that  the  horse  had  been  stunned,  and 
had  gone  to  the  bottom  like  a  stone. 

Happily,  the  hoofs  first,  and  then  the  legs  of  the  animal, 
gradually  appeared  above  water  ;  and  then,  as  the  body 
grounded  on  the  gravelly  ford  twenty  yards  below,  which 


174  SPORTING   STORIES 

Templer  had  failed  to  hit,  he  discovered  that  his  mare's 
forelegs  had  been  caught  by  the  reins,  and  that  every  time 
she  struck  out  she  jerked  her  head  under  water.  To 
plunge  into  the  stream  and  cut  the  reins  was  the  work  of 
a  second,  when  the  brave  beast  jumped  on  her  legs. 
Templer  vaulted  into  the  saddle  and  rode  off  in  pursuit  of 
the  hounds. 

A  fever  he  had  caught  at  Eton  had  destroyed  his  hair, 
and  he  always  wore  a  sand-coloured  wig.  Wig  and  hat, 
however,  were  carried  away  to  sea,  and  he  was  discovered 
scudding  away  under  bare  poles ;  nor,  like  the  moss- 
trooper of  old,  did  he  "slacken  his  rein  or  stint  to  ride" 
till  he  had  picked  up  the  fox  and  bagged  him  alive. 

The  spirit  of  the  fox-hunting  enthusiast  nothing  can 
quell,  and  it  has  never  been  better  exemplified  than  in  the 
case  of  Joe  Maiden,  the  famous  huntsmen  of  the  Cheshire 
Hounds.  One  day,  while  giving  some  directions  to  his 
boiler-man  about  the  hounds'  food,  Joe  slipped  with  both 
legs  into  the  copper  where  the  mess  was  seething :  he  was 
out  again  in  an  instant,  and  apparently  little  injured ;  but 
when  the  stocking  of  his  right  leg  came  to  be  removed 
part  of  the  calf  literally  came  away  with  it,  leaving  the 
bone  exposed.  The  torture  he  endured  after  that  was 
excruciating.  The  leg  was  broken  once,  if  not  twice,  when 
he  was  out  with  his  hounds.  Pieces  of  the  bone  were 
continually  coming  away,  until  the  limb  seemed  only  kept 
together  by  ligaments  and  diachylon  plaster.  And  yet, 
under  all  this  martyrdom,  riding  with  one  stirrup  shorter 
than  the  other,  Joe  Maiden  often  hunted  six  days  a  week 
and  did  not  close  an  eye  all  night.  Each  year  that 
followed  he  had  to  add  an  inch  to  the  heel  of  his  boot, 
until,  catching  a  chill  one  wet  morning,  mortification  set 
in  and  Joe  had  to  part  with  his  leg  to  save  his  life.  This 
was  in  November  1855,  ^"^  ^y  Christmas  he  was  so  wasted 
that  his  wife  could  carry  him  from  room  to  room.  How- 
ever, he  furnished  himself  with  two  artificial  legs,  one  for 
walking,  the  other  for  riding  ;  for  he  found  that  he  could 
not  ride  with  the  walking  leg,  and  could  not  walk  with  the 
riding  leg.  At  last  he  got  the  "  Patent  American  Leg," 
which   weighed  only  3^    lbs.  (without  its  appurtenances), 


PERILS   AND   PENALTIES  175 

and  after  that  he  was  able  to  hunt  the  hounds  almost  as 
well  as  ever.  On  his  famous  horse  Peverott  few  could 
equal  Joe  at  jumping.  Once,  when  he  had  slipped  all  the 
rest  of  the  field,  finding  that  one  persistent  rider  was 
catching  him,  he  dashed  up  a  lane,  and  cleared  five  big 
gates  in  close  succession.  After  which  Lord  Delamere 
offered  to  back  Joe  and  Peverott  for  looo  guineas 
against  any  man  and  horse  in  England  to  negotiate  the 
stiffest  part  of  the  Cheshire  country  ;  but  the  challenge  was 
never  accepted. 

Most  fox-hunters  have  been  long-lived,  and  many  have 
attained  patriarchal  age :  preserving  their  vigour,  too, 
in  a  marvellous  manner.  John  Warde,  "the  father  of 
fox-hunting,"  hunted  the  Craven  when  he  was  seventy- 
six.  Thomas  Assheton  Smith  rode  hard  to  hounds  till 
he  was  past  eighty,  and  only  a  few  months  before  he 
completed  his  eightieth  year  had  three  heavy  falls  in  one 
day  when  out  with  the  Tedworth,  yet  seemed  as  little 
shaken  as  if  he  had  been  a  hard-riding  undergraduate  from 
Oxford  or  Cambridge.  The  then  Lord  Wilton  rode 
straight  and  well  long  after  he  had  passed  the  Psalmist's 
span.  "  The  other  Tom  Smith,"  of  Hambledon,  could  hold 
his  own  with  the  best,  and  take  bad  falls  with  nonchalance, 
when  he  was  nearer  eighty  than  seventy.  Colonel  An- 
struther  Thomson  rode  to  hounds  when  an  octogenarian. 
My  old  friend  Colonel  Bethune  hunted  three  days  a  week 
when  he  was  eighty.  But  even  these  vigorous  veterans 
were  not  equal  to  "Jack"  Russell,  of  Devon,  who  led  the 
field  in  a  fine  run  with  the  Devon  and  Somerset  Stag- 
hounds  when  he  was  within  three  months  of  his  eighty- 
sixth  birthday  ! 

As  to  those  dangers  of  the  hunting-field  to  which  I  have 
referred,  it  is  comforting  to  the  fox-hunter  to  reflect  that 
there  are  more  perils  lurking  in  the  streets  of  London  than 
in  the  worst  hunting-country  in  the  three  kingdoms. 
Anthony  Trollope  used  to  calculate  that  there  were  more 
fatal  accidents  in  the  streets  of  London  in  a  year  than 
there  were  in  the  hunting-field  in  a  century.  He  declared 
that  he  always  felt  safer  when  riding  to  hounds  than  when 
crossing  the  Strand  or  Regent  Street.     And  if  ever  there 


176  SPORTING   STORIES 

were  a  reckless  rider  it  was  the  author  of  Barchester 
Towers.  He  tells  us  in  his  Autobiography  that,  being 
short-sighted,  "  I  have  either  to  follow  someone  or  ride  at  a 
fence  with  the  full  conviction  that  I  may  be  either  going 
into  a  horse-pond  or  a  gravel-pit.  I  have  jumped  into 
both  the  one  and  the  other."  And  he  adds :  "  Few  have 
investigated  more  closely  than  I  have  done  the  depth  and 
breadth  and  water-holding  capacities  of  an  Essex  ditch. 
It  will,  I  think,  be  accorded  to  me  by  Essex  men  that  I 
have  ridden  hard  ;  I  am  very  heavy,  and  have  never  ridden 
expensive  horses.  I  am  also  getting  old  now  for  such 
work,  being  so  stiff  that  I  cannot  get  upon  my  horse 
without  the  aid  of  a  block  or  bank.  Yet  I  ride  after  the 
same  fashion,  determined  to  be  ahead,  hating  the  roads 
and  with  a  feeling  that  life  cannot  with  all  its  riches  have 
given  me  anything  better  than  when  I  have  gone  through 
a  long  run  to  the  finish." 

That  is  a  fine,  breezy  tribute  to  the  invigorating  effects 
of  fox-hunting ;  and  let  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  Anthony 
TroUope  hunted  in  that  reckless  style  for  thirty  years  and 
never  had  a  bone  in  his  body  broken. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  MOST  EXTRAORDINARY  JUMP 
ON  RECORD 

The  other  day  I  met  an  old  gentleman  in  Northampton- 
shire who,  in  his  youth,  had  jumped  into  a  quarry  when 
out  with  hounds — as  the  present  Lord  Coventry  has  also 
done — and,  though  his  horse  was  killed  on  the  spot,  he 
escaped  with  a  broken  leg. 

The  following  adventure  of  General  Moore's,  however,  the 
veracity  of  which  is  attested  by  the  word  of  a  British  officer, 
will,  I  think,  stand  for  a  good  many  more  years  as  a  record, 
although,  as  will  be  seen,  it  was  not  connected  with  hunting 
in  any  shape  or  form.     Here  is  the  statement : — 

"  United  Service  Club, 
"  i2>th  March  i860. 

"In  June  1848,  at  the  island  of  Dominica,  in  the  West 
Indies,  I  fell  over  a  precipice  of  two  hundred  and  thirty- 
seven  feet,  perpendicular  height,  upon  the  rocks  by  the  sea- 
side. This  occurred  about  a  quarter  past  seven  o'clock 
p.m.,  then  quite  dark,  as  no  twilight  exists  in  the  tropics. 
Every  bone  of  my  horse  was  broken,  and  I  conceive  my 
escape  from  instant  death  the  most  miraculous  that  ever 
occurred.  My  recovery  from  the  shock  I  sustained  was 
also  as  miraculous  as  my  escape  with  life.  I  sent  an  artist 
to  take  a  drawing  of  the  spot,  and  also  had  the  place 
surveyed  by  an  engineer.  I  have  often  thought  of  putting 
down  all  the  circumstances  of  that  extraordinary  accident, 
but  the  fear  of  being  taken  for  a  Baron  Munchausen  has 
restrained  me.  I  do  not  expect  that  anyone  will  believe  it, 
although  there  are  many  living  witnesses.  Nor  do  I  expect 
any  sympathy  ;  for,  as  soon  as  I  could  hold  a  pen,  I  detailed 

177  12 


178  SPORTING   STORIES 

the  catastrophe  to  my  mother  to  account  for  my  long  silence. 
I  received  in  reply  in  due  course  a  long  letter  detailing 
family  news,  without  any  allusion  to  my  unfortunate  case 
except  in  a  postscript,  in  which  she  merely  said,  '  Oh 
William,  I  wish  you  would  give  up  riding  after  diviner' ! 
"  Wm.  York  Moore,  Major  Gen. 
''  P.S. — During  the  fall  I  stuck  to  my  horse." 

The  fall,  or  leap,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  took 
place,  however,  before  dinner,  so  that  the  old  lady's  suspicions 
were  ill-founded.  The  details  of  this  extraordinary  adven- 
ture were  as  follows  :  Colonel  William  York  Moore,  while 
commanding  the  troops  in  Dominica,  lost  his  way  one 
evening  after  sunset.  In  complete  darkness  he  endeavoured 
to  make  his  way  home.  Two  or  three  times  he  had  con- 
siderable difficulty  in  making  his  horse  cross  obstacles  on 
the  way,  but  at  last  they  came  to  something  which  the 
horse  would  not  face.  Colonel  Moore  was  a  fearless  rider, 
and  time  after  time  he  turned  his  horse  and  rode  him  at 
full  speed  against  the  unknown  obstacle,  but  in  vain.  At 
last,  urged  fiercely  by  whip  and  spur,  the  terrified  animal, 
with  a  snort  of  terror,  cleared  the  low  hedge — for  such  it 
proved  to  be — in  front,  and  went  over  the  awful  precipice. 
Colonel  Moore  says  that,  during  his  flight  on  horseback 
through  the  air,  almost  every  event  of  his  life  flashed  across 
his  mind  as  distinctly  and  vividly  as  if  they  were  being 
actually  re-enacted.  The  faces  of  all  his  relatives  and 
friends  rose  up  before  him — his  whole  life  seemed  mapped 
out  in  a  luminous  panorama  before  him — when  suddenly 
there  came  a  terrific  concussion,  which  deprived  him  of  his 
senses  and  left  him  with  his  legs  in  the  sea  and  his  body  on 
the  rock,  apparently  dead. 

He  must  have  lain  there  stunned  for  some  hours,  for  when 
at  last  the  lapping  water  and  cool  breeze  restored  him  to 
his  senses  the  moon  was  shining  brightly  in  mid-heaven, 
and  its  beams  fell  on  the  upturned,  glittering  shoes  of  his 
gallant  horse,  which  lay  dead  and  mangled  beside  him. 

As  soon  as  he  had  collected  his  scattered  wits.  Colonel 
Moore  coolly  began  to  examine  himself  to  ascertain  what 
injuries  he  had  sustained.     The  result  of  his  investigation 


THE  MOST  EXTRAORDINARY  JUMP  179 

was  the  pleasing  discovery  that  he  was  severely  cut  about 
the  body  and  head,  that  his  right  ankle  was  dislocated, 
and  that  his  back  was  benumbed  or  paralysed  by  the 
concussion  of  his  fall.  When,  however,  the  long-wished-for 
sun  arose,  it  shone  upon  his  bare,  bleeding  head  with  such 
intolerable  heat  that,  as  a  protection  from  its  rays,  he 
transferred  his  cotton  handkerchief  to  his  scalp  and  fore- 
head, leaving  sticking  up  above  them  the  two  ends,  which, 
like  the  remainder,  were  stained  crimson  with  his  blood. 

After  lying  in  horrible  pain  for  several  hours,  to  his 
great  joy  he  spied  a  boat  full  of  natives  rowing  towards  the 
spot  where  he  lay.  As  they  came  near,  he  hailed  them  in 
a  faint  voice  ;  but  the  moment  their  eyes  fell  on  the  ghastly 
figure  of  the  Colonel,  with  his  strange  head-dress,  they  set 
up  a  yell,  and  rowed  away  as  if  twenty  thousand  devils 
were  after  them,  and  never  paused  till  a  projecting  tongue 
of  land  hid  them  from  view.  After  some  time  a  single 
black  man  came  clambering  over  the  rocks,  intent  only  on 
catching  fish.  He  was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  Colonel, 
when  the  latter  hailed  him.  But  the  moment  the  nigger 
caught  sight  of  the  bleeding  head  and  blood-stained 
bandages,  he  uttered  a  yell  as  wild  as  his  comrades  had 
done,  flung  down  his  rod  and  line,  and  made  tracks  over 
the  rocks  as  fast  as  his  feet  and  hands  could  carry  him. 

The  Colonel  began  to  despair  of  ever  receiving  assistance, 
and  resigned  himself  to  the  prospect  of  a  lingering  death. 
But,  fortunately,  his  English  servant,  alarmed  at  his 
master's  absence,  went  in  search  of  him,  and,  after  tracking 
the  horse's  hoofs  for  hours,  at  last  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  This,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  sudden 
cessation  of  the  hoof-prints  and  the  signs  of  trampling 
near  the  low  fence,  convinced  him  that  an  accident  had 
happened.  He  therefore  ran  to  the  barracks ;  a  boat  was 
procured  and  manned  by  eager  soldiers,  who  pulled 
lustily  towards  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  Very  tenderly  and 
carefully  they  lifted  their  Colonel  into  the  boat,  and  rowed 
him  back  to  the  barracks.  He  was  borne  to  his  quarters 
on  a  stretcher,  and  for  some  months  he  lay  in  great  pain 
and  danger.  But  in  due  course  the  paralysed  muscles  of 
his   back    recovered,  and    eventually   he   was    restored    to 


180  SPORTING   STORIES 

complete  health,  and  not  even  the  slighest  touch  of  lame- 
ness remained  to  remind  him  of  his  fall. 

The  story  of  this  marvellous  feat  spread  like  wildfire 
through  the  West  Indies,  and  for  some  months  afterwards 
the  negroes  drove  quite  a  brisk  trade  in  the  sale  of  portions 
of  the  saddle,  strips  of  the  horse's  hide,  and  shreds  of  the 
Colonel's  dress  which  had  been  torn  off  by  projecting  trees 
in  the  terrible  descent.  The  horse  was  literally  smashed 
to  pulp.  That  I  think,  is  the  most  marvellous  leap  on 
horseback  ever  made  by  any  man  who  lived  to  tell  the 
tale.  I  had  some  slight  knowledge  of  Colonel,  afterwards 
General  Moore,  who  was  a  familiar  figure  at  the  Carlton 
Club  more  than  thirty  years  ago ;  and,  from  the  high 
character  he  bore,  I  have  no  doubt  that  his  story  is,  in 
every  particular,  strictly  true. 

There  have  been  some  remarkable  jumps  of  a  less 
sensational  character  than  that  of  General  Moore,  but  taken 
in  cold  blood  and  with  intention.  Of  these,  Chandler's 
famous  leap  at  Warwick,  when  he  took  39  ft.  in  his  stride, 
is  generally  accepted  as  the  biggest  on  record.  But  there 
have  been  others  scarcely  less  notable.  Turnip,  a  son  of 
PotSos,  cleared  the  height  of  5  ft.  10  in.  in  Phoenix  Park, 
but  afterwards  far  surpassed  that  feat  by  leaping  over 
Hyde  Park  wall  at  Grosvenor  Gate,  a  height  of  6  ft.  6  in., 
with  a  drop  of  8  ft.  on  the  other  side.  Cecil  Forester,  who 
weighed  14  st.,  once  made  an  extraordinary  jump  on  his 
splendid  hunter  Bernardo;  the  horse,  carrying  that  welter- 
weight, cleared  a  stream  32  ft.  across,  and  landed  cleanly 
on  the  opposite  bank.  How  fine  a  horseman  Forester  was 
may  be  gathered  from  the  following  : — "  When  at  about  half 
a  field's  distance  from  him,"  writes  an  eye-witness,  "  I  saw 
him  take  each  fence  as  it  came.  '  That's  nothing,  at  all 
events,'  I  repeatedly  said  to  myself  But  I  was  as  often 
deceived  on  coming  up  to  them  and  finding  them  very  big. 
And  neither  Forester  nor  his  horse  seemed  to  exert  them- 
selves any  more  to  get  over  these  strong  bullock-fences 
than  they  would  in  clearing  a  small  ditch.  But  I  was  told 
it  was  all  the  effect  of  hand,  and  not  allowing  the  horse  to 
leap  a  foot  higher  or  farther  than  necessary." 

Jack    Mytton's    feats   of   jumping    on    horseback    also 


THE  MOST  EXTRAORDINARY  JUMP  181 

reached  the  marvellous  at  times.  Coming  home  from  a 
day  with  hounds  once,  he  leapt  a  brook  27  ft.  wide,  and 
followed  that  with  a  flying  jump  over  a  deer-park  hurdle 
8  ft.  high,  finishing  up  with  a  third  leap  over  a  drive  gate 
7  ft.  in  height. 

One  of  the  most  extraordinary  high  leaps  ever  taken 
was  that  by  a  hack  belonging  to  the  late  Earl  of  Wemyss. 
A  groom  was  riding  this  horse  to  the  post-office  for  letters 
one  day,  and  on  the  road  took  up  behind  him  a  travelling 
glazier  whom  he  knew.  No  sooner,  however,  had  the 
latter  mounted,  than  the  hack,  frightened  at  the  rattling  of 
the  squares  of  glass  slung  on  the  glazier's  back,  got  beyond 
control,  dashed  wildly  along  the  road,  and,  coming  up  to  a 
toll-bar  5  ft.  6  in.  high,  with  spikes  on  the  top,  the  horse — 
although  never  known  to  jump  before — cleared  it  at  a  stride, 
without  injury  to  himself,  his  riders,  or  any  breakage  of  glass  ! 

An  old  friend  and  journalistic  colleague  of  mine,  whose 
veracity  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt,  in  an  article  contributed 
to  a  newspaper  of  which  I  was  the  editor,  said  : — 

"  About  sixty  years  since  an  Arabian  horse,  when  being 
led  through  the  streets  of  Greenock,  broke  loose  from  his 
groom,  and,  galloping  with  such  headlong  speed  towards 
the  dry  dock  there  that  he  was  unable  to  stop  himself 
when  he  came  to  the  brink,  boldly  leaped  down,  and 
alighted  safely  on  the  flagged  bottom,  34  ft.  below.  After 
trotting  about  some  time  in  search  of  an  exit,  apparently 
none  the  worse  for  the  big  jump  he  had  involuntarily 
taken,  he  espied  the  narrow,  steep  steps  used  by  the  ship- 
wrights, and  by  these  soon  mounted  again  to  the  top,  not 
having  even  sprained  a  sinew  in  either  effort.  That  was  a 
steep  jump !  But  an  equally  remarkable  long  leap  was 
taken  by  a  nag  belonging  to  Mr  Cunningham,  of  Craigend, 
who,  with  his  owner  up,  cleared  the  canal  between  Glasgow 
and  Paisley,  a  width  of  33  ft,  the  horse  covering  in  the 
jump  about  2  yards  more,  or  39  ft.  altogether." 

Of  course,  our  American  cousins  whenever  we  make  a 
record  are  bound  to  "  go  one  better."  Consequently,  I  was 
not  surprised  to  find  the  following  paragraph  in  a  New 
York  journal : — 

"  Mr  Meneller,  of  Dickel's  Riding  Academy,  the  other  day, 


182  SPORTING   STORIES 

in  Central  Park,  lost  control  of  the  young  mare  he  was 
driving,  and  she  bolted  wildly  towards  the  Eighth  Avenue 
exit.  Alive  to  the  danger,  Mr  Meneller  headed  the  mare 
towards  a  stone  wall  that  separates  the  park  from  Fifty- 
ninth  Street,  thinking  that  the  mere  sight  of  the  obstacle 
would  stop  the  animal.  But,  instead  of  coming  to  a  stop, 
she  '  took  off'  and  cleared  the  ditch  and  wall,  landing  on 
the  side-walk  of  Fifty-ninth  Street,  her  hind  feet  on  the 
'  balustrade,'  and  the  dogcart  in  a  perpendicular  position 
against  the  wall,  the  measurement  of  which  is  7  ft.  11  in. 
She  '  took '  from  a  bank  10  in.  high,  the  length  of  the  leap 
being  11  ft." 

Comment  upon  that  phenomenal  feat  is  unnecessary. 
One  can  only  exclaim  with  Dominie  Sampson,  "  Pro- 
dig-ious  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DRIVING  AND  TROTTING 

As  I  was  reading  the  diary  of  Colonel  Peter  Hawker  I 
was  struck  with  the  constant  reference  to  the  sport  he 
enjoyed  whilst  travelling  by  stage-coach.  For  example, 
descriptive  of  a  journey  by  mail-coach  to  Exeter : — "  We 
were  a  delightfully  jolly  party,  and,  not  being  post  day, 
the  mail  stopped  whenever  we  saw  game,  and  during  the 
journey  I  killed  four  brace  of  partridges.  When  it  was 
too  dark  to  shoot,  our  party  mounted  the  roof  and  sang 
choruses,  in  which  the  guard  and  coachman  took  a  very 
able  part." 

There  were  fast  coaches  and  slow  coaches  in  the  old 
days.  The  Edinburgh  mail  ran  400  miles  in  40  hours, 
stoppages  included.  The  Exeter  day  coach  did  173  miles 
in  17  hours,  and  the  Devonport  mail  227  miles  in  22  hours  ; 
but  the  Shrewsbury  and  Chester  "  Highflyer"  usually  took 
from  8  a.m.  to  8  p.m.  to  do  its  40  miles  over  a  good  road. 
It  was  a  free  and  easy,  no-hurry  sort  of  coach.  If  a 
commercial  traveller  wanted  to  do  a  little  business  on 
the  road,  or  a  gentleman  wanted  to  call  upon  a  friend, 
the  coachman  was  always  willing  to  pull  up  and  bide 
their  time.  There  were  houses  of  call  where  half  an  hour 
soon  slipped  away  with  a  pleasant  landlord  or  pretty  bar- 
maid. Then  there  was  the  dinner  at  Wrexham,  for  which 
two  hours  were  allowed ;  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
coachie  would  thrust  his  jolly  face  in  at  the  door  and 
say,  "  The  coach  is  ready,  gen'l'men  ;  but  if  yer  wish  for 
another  bottle,  don't  let  me  disturb  yer." 

The  costume  of  the  celebrated  Driving  Club,  when  it 
met  in  Hyde  Park  in  181 1,  would  very  much  surprise 
the  coaching  clubmen  of  the  present  day.     A  light,  drab- 

1S3 


184  SPORTING   STORIES 

coloured  cloth  coat  made  full  and  single-breasted,  with 
three  tiers  of  pockets,  the  skirts  reaching  to  the  ankles,  and 
mother-of-pearl  buttons  the  size  of  a  crown  piece  ;  a  blue- 
and-yellow  striped  waistcoat,  each  stripe  an  inch  wide ; 
cord  silk  and  plush  breeches  made  to  button  over  the  calf 
of  each  leg,  with  sixteen  strings  and  rosettes  to  each  knee  ; 
the  boots  were  short,  and  finished  with  very  broad  straps 
that  hung  over  the  tops  and  down  to  the  ankle  ;  a  hat 
three  and  a  half  inches  deep  in  the  crown  only,  and  the 
same  depth  in  the  brim ;  and  each  driver  with  a  large 
bouquet  at  his  breast. 

Sir  John  Lade,  who  was  one  of  the  best  whips  of  his 
day,  for  a  wager  drove  a  four-in-hand  into  the  old  yard  at 
Tattersalls  and  out  again  without  touching  either  wall  or 
grass  plot.  This  was  thought  a  great  feat  then,  as  the 
entrance  was  through  a  narrow  passage  and  down  an 
inclined  drive,  at  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  sharp  turn  by 
the  "  Turf  Tap."  Another  covered  gateway  then  led  into 
the  auction  yard,  round  which  Sir  John  drove  and  got  out 
again  without  brushing  against  brick  or  blade  of  grass  on 
either  side,  and  won. 

But  quite  as  difficult  an  achievement  was  accomplished 
by  Sam  Page,  the  driver  of  the  Winchester  mail,  on 
i6th  September  1795.  Mr  Lackington  the  bookseller 
had  a  dispute  with  Mr  Willan  the  horse-dealer  about  the 
size  of  his  (Mr  Lackington's)  shop,  the  Temple  of  the 
Muses,  Finsbury  Square,  which  the  proprietor  said  was 
large  enough  to  allow  a  coach  and  four  to  drive  round  it. 
As  each  was  positive  the  other  was  wrong,  a  bet  of  500 
guineas  was  made,  and  Sam  Page  was  selected  by  the  book- 
seller to  decide  it.  On  the  day  named  the  Winchester 
mail-coach,  full  of  passengers,  was  driven  in,  round,  and 
out  of  Lackington's  shop  without  doing  the  least  damage, 
the  proprietor  in  his  own  carriage  following  the  mail. 
Sam  Page  was  presented  with  20  guineas  by  the 
winner  of  the  wager  for  having  accomplished  the  feat. 
Mr  Willan,  the  loser,  owed  his  success  in  life  to  havine, 
when  ostler  at  the  Rutland  Arms,  Newmarket,  recom- 
mended the  Duke  of  Cumberland  to  buy  a  mare  who  was 
afterwards  the  dam  of  Marske,  the  sire  of  the  celebrated 


DRIVING   AND   TROTTING         185 

Eclipse.  As  Willan  had  previously  got  him  a  capital 
mount,  the  Duke  started  him  in  business  in  London  as  a 
dealer,  and  subsequently  got  the  ex-ostler  the  contract  for 
supplying  the  British  cavalry  and  artillery  with  horses. 

A  favourite  pastime  in  those  days  was  trotting — not  the 
highly  elaborated  sport  now  practised  in  America,  but  a 
much  less  ambitious  test  of  a  horse's  speed  at  that  pace — 
and  matches  were  frequently  made  to  trot  against  the  crack 
express  coaches.  Burke,  of  trotting  celebrity,  laid  a  wager 
that  his  pony  would  trot  from  Bedford  to  London  and 
back — a  distance  of  52  miles — in  less  time  than  the 
"  Times "  coach,  which  did  the  distance  at  the  rate  of 
10^  miles  an  hour,  without  a  pause  between  the  down 
journey  and  the  up.  When  within  9  miles  of  Bedford 
on  the  return,  the  pony  broke  down  and  had  to  be  shot. 
On  another  occasion  he  trotted  two  ponies  from  London — 
the  Bolt-in-Tun  Inn,  Fleet  Street — -to  Hereford,  a  distance 
of  137  miles,  against  the  "Mazeppa,"  and  arrived  at  his 
destination  12  minutes  before  the  coach,  doing  the  journey 
in  14  hours  and  11  minutes. 

Burke,  by  the  way,  was  one  of  the  principals  in  an 
amateur  prize-fight  for  ;^ioo  a  side,  which  created  great 
excitement  in  the  sporting  world.  His  antagonist  was 
a  gentleman  jockey  named  Chilcott.  They  fought  for 
two  hours  and  a  quarter  under  the  rules  of  the  Prize 
Ring,  at  Grays  in  Essex,  on  the  4th  of  October  1842,  and 
Chilcott  won. 

In  1791  a  trotting  match  took  place  upon  the  Romford 
road,  between  Mr  Bishop's  brown  mare,  eighteen  years  old, 
and  Mr  Green's  chestnut  gelding,  six  years  old,  12  st.  each, 
for  50  guineas  a  side ;  they  were  to  trot  16  miles,  which 
the  mare  did  with  ease  in  66  min.  10  sec.  The  same  year 
a  trotting  match  took  place  from  Lynn  Gates,  7  miles  on 
the  Downham  road,  and  back  to  the  gates  (14  miles),  by 
a  noted  horse  called  Shuffler,  the  property  of  Mr  Kent 
of  Unwell,  in  Norfolk,  against  time,  for  200  guineas.  The 
horse  carried  18  st.,  and  was  allowed  an  hour,  but  per- 
formed it  in  56^  min.  In  1793  a  Mr  Shipway,  of  Hoxton, 
trotted  his  pony  Jack,  ten  hands  high,  12  miles  on  the 
Kingsland    road.       He    took    10   guineas    to    5    that   he 


186  SPORTING   STORIES 

did  not  cover  the  distance  in  less  than  an  hour,  and  Jack 
did  it  in  41 1  min. 

In  1796  the  Honourable  Mr  Cavendish  betted  another 
gentleman  200  guineas  that  he  would  trot  his  English  mare 
15  miles  over  the  Curragh  in  one  hour,  and  accomplished 
the  feat  in  51^  min.  A  brown  gelding  once  trotted  a  mile 
on  the  Denham  and  Norwich  road  in  2  min.  49  sec. 
One  of  the  best  trotting  matches  on  record  was  that  for 
100  guineas  between  Charles  Herbert  and  Richard  Wilson. 
The  bet  was  that  Mr  Herbert's  horse  could  not  trot  17 
miles  an  hour  on  the  Highgate  road  (which,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  the  hilliest  outside  of  London),  to  start  from 
St.  Giles's  Church.  Six  o'clock  in  the  morning  was  the 
time  chosen,  as  the  road  was  then  free,  and  the  task  was 
actually  accomplished  in  i  min.  20  sec.  under  time. 

In  the  year  1797  a  gelding  belonging  to  a  pork-butcher 
in  the  Blackfriars  Road,  whose  daily  employment  was  to 
run  in  a  cart,  was  matched  against  time  to  trot  on  the 
Romford  road,  12  miles  an  hour,  for  5  guineas.  The 
appearance  of  the  poor  animal  was  so  miserable  that  con- 
siderable odds  at  starting  were  laid  against  it — 20  guineas 
to  5.  Yet,  notwithstanding  his  meagre  appearance,  the 
gelding  did  the  distance  in  58  min.  57  sec. 

But  these  sink  into  insignificance  in  comparison  with 
the  wonderful  achievements  of  trained  trotting  horses  in 
America,  where  the  time  for  a  mile  has  been  reduced  to 
2  min.  2  sec.  The  present  holder  of  the  record,  Crescens, 
is  credited  with  2  min.  2f  sec,  and  possibly  I  may  live  to 
see  the  mile  trotted  in  even  time.  Indeed,  the  pacing  mile 
has  already  been  done  in  i  min.  50J  sec,  by  Star  Pointer, 
in  1897. 

Lady  Suffolk's  record  of  2  min.  28  sec  in  1849  ^^^ 
thought  nothing  short  of  miraculous,  and  it  was  generally 
prophesied  that  this  time  for  the  mile  would  never  be 
beaten.  How  utterly  wide  of  the  mark  that  prophecy  was 
I  have  already  shown.  Of  Maud  S.  the  same  was 
prophesied.  This  mare  belonged  to  Mr  Vanderbilt,  who 
gave  20,000  dollars  for  her,  and  was  afterwards  offered 
25,000  dollars  by  a  patent  pill  vendor  if  he  would  change 
her   name   to    that   of  the    medicine   he  was  advertising. 


DRIVING   AND   TROTTING  187 

Maud  S.  lowered  the  time  from  2  min.  12  sec.  to  2  min. 
8^  sec,  and  from  1880  to  1885  held  the  record. 

I  suppose  there  are  few  things  in  which  Cousin  Jonathan 
does  not  think  that  he  can  give  John  Bull  a  wrinkle  or 
two.  He  certainly  opened  our  British  eyes,  and  wiped 
them  too,  when  he  sent  the  America  over  to  show  her 
heels  to  the  fastest  yachts  our  played-out  old  country  could 
produce.  Then  Captain  Bogardus  came,  and  beat  all  our 
crack  pigeon-shots ;  and,  lastly.  Tod  Sloan  came  to  teach 
our  jockeys  how  to  ride.  Under  these  circumstances  it  is 
soothing  to  our  wounded  vanity  to  realise  the  fact  that 
time  was  when  John  Bull  could  teach  Jonathan  a  lesson 
or  two  in  the  matter  of  running  horses  at  any  rate. 

Talking  about  American  racehorses  reminds  me  of 
Diomed,  the  winner  of  the  first  Derby.  In  the  year 
following  that  event  he  started  in  the  principal  race  at 
Nottingham  with  long  odds  on  him,  and  was  beaten  by 
Lord  Grosvenor's  Fortitude,  a  far  inferior  horse.  Some 
nasty  remarks  were  made  by  the  losers  on  the  occasion, 
and  Sir  Charles  Bunbury  quarrelled  with  and  dismissed 
his  jockey.  In  the  same  year,  however,  Diomed  was 
beaten  at  Newmarket  by  Colonel  O'Kelly's  Boudrow,  who 
had  come  in  second  to  him  in  the  first  Derby,  and  in 
disgust  Sir  Charles  refused  to  let  him  run  in  1782.  Next 
year  Diomed  started  seven  times,  but  only  won  once,  and, 
falling  lame,  was  turned  out  of  training  and  sent  to  the 
stud,  where  he  was  the  sire  of  many  illustrious  horses.  In 
1793  hs  was  sold  for  50  guineas  to  an  American,  who 
shortly  after  landing  him  in  the  States  sold  him  for 
1000.  And  Diomed,  who  lived  to  the  age  of  40, 
became  the  father  of  the  American  Turf;  for  there  is 
scarcely  a  famous  trotter  or  racer,  from  Florida  to  Maine, 
that  does  not  trace  its  descent  from  the  winner  of  the  first 
Derby.  As  an  instance,  Foxhall,  who  in  1881  won  the 
Grand  Prix  de  Paris,  the  Cesarewitch,  and  the  Cambridge- 
shire, was  a  descendant  of  the  mighty  Lexington,  one  of 
the  progeny  of  Diomed. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SOME  NOTABLE   HORSE-BREAKERS 

One  of  the  most  famous  horse-breakers  and  trainers  of  the 
last  generation  was  Seffart,  Master  of  the  Horse  to  the 
Margrave  of  Anspach.  Once,  when  Lord  Rivers  was  stay- 
ing with  the  Marquis  of  Bute,  the  former  remarked  upon 
a  splendid-looking  thoroughbred  being  led  by  a  groom. 
**  Oh,  that  brute,"  said  the  Marquis ;  "  he's  going  to  the 
kennel  for  the  hounds  to  eat.  There  is  no  managing  him  ; 
he  has  killed  one  groom,  and  maimed  several." 

"  Send  him  to  my  friend  Seffart,"  answered  Lord  Rivers  ; 
"  if  he  had  killed  forty  men  he'd  tame  him."  Accordingly, 
the  horse  was  sent  to  Seffart,  at  Bath,  and  after  a  while  the 
trainer  made  him  one  of  the  most  perfect-mannered  horses 
in  England.  "  I  remember,"  said  his  son,  when  telling  the 
story,  "  seeing  him  lie  down  with  my  father  in  the  road. 
He  only  said,  '  My  poor  fellow,  it's  a  pity  you  give  yourself 
so  much  trouble.  You'll  have  to  get  up  with  me  again.' 
And  so  he  did.  He  never  hit  him,  but  just  waited,  and  the 
horse  got  up  with  him  at  last." 

"  My  father,"  adds  his  son,  "  was  very  patient  in  breaking 
horses — though  that  is  a  wrong  term  :  they  don't  want  to 
be  broken,  but  to  be  taught  what  you  want  them  to  do. 
At  the  same  time,  my  father  was  determined  that  they  should 
do  what  was  required  of  them,  and,  when  they  had  done 
it,  always  rewarded  them  with  a  piece  of  sugar,  carrot,  or 
something  that  they  liked,  and  he  never  made  them  repeat 
anything  so  as  to  sicken  them  of  it.  When  he  was  certain 
they  knew  what  was  wanted  of  them  and  would  not  do  it,  he 
would  give  them  one  smart  blow  across  the  neck  with  a  cane. 
He  said,  '  If  you  do  hit  them,  make  them  feel  it ' ;  and  he 
thought  a  blow  round  the  neck  had  more  effect  than  any- 


SOME  NOTABLE  HORSE-BREAKERS  189 

where  else,  as  it  startled  them  more.  Whips  and  spurs  are 
bad  things :  they  do  more  harm  than  good.  There  are  as 
many  touches  on  a  horse's  mouth  as  there  are  notes  on  a 
pianoforte ;  but  it's  no  use  if  you  haven't  the  head  to  use 
them  at  the  right  time,  and  don't  know  how  to  apply  them." 

In  consequence  of  a  young  lady  having  eloped  from  his 
riding-school  with  one  of  those  heiress-hunters  with  whom 
Bath  used  to  abound,  Seffart  made  it  a  rule  to  receive 
gentlemen  from  ten  to  twelve,  ladies  from  twelve  to  two. 

Among  the  Irish  adventurers  at  Bath  on  the  look-out 
for  impressionable  heiresses  was  a  certain  Captain 
O'Flanagan,  who  followed  with  great  assiduity  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  soap-boiler  who  was  taking  lessons  of 
Seffart.  As  the  above-mentioned  elopement  had  already 
got  Seffart  into  hot  water,  he  now  kept  a  sharp  look-out 
and  abided  strictly  by  his  rule  of  separating  the  sexes 
during  exercise  hours.  One  day  Captain  O'Flanagan, 
who  had  purchased  a  ticket  for  the  season,  strolled  in  at  a 
quarter  to  twelve. 

"  You  can  only  ride  fifteen  minutes,  sir,"  said  Seffart. 

"  All  right,"  was  his  reply. 

Doubting  his  sincerity,  however,  Seffart  put  him  upon  a 
tricky  horse  called  Fortunatus.  As  the  clock  struck 
twelve  the  trainer  said,  "  Time's  up,  Captain." 

"  I  shall  not  go.  I  pay  for  two  hours,  and  two  hours  I 
shall  have,"  was  the  cool  reply. 

"  But  you  agreed  to  go  at  twelve." 

"Then  I've  changed  my  mind." 

"But  I  haven't,"  said  Seffart  quietly.  "Now  am  I  to 
treat  you  as  a  gentleman  or  a  blackguard  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel  ? "  roared  the 
Milesian, 

"The  ladies  are  waiting,"  pursued  the  trainer;  "will 
you  go  ?  " 

"  I'll  see  you  d d  first,"  was  the  response. 

Seffart  said  no  more  to  the  Captain,  but  called,  "  Hi ! 
Fortunatus  ;  up  lad,"  and  made  a  sign  with  his  whip.  In 
an  instant  Fortunatus  reared  bolt  upright,  and  the  next 
moment  was  on  all  fours  again  and  striking  out  with  his 
hind  legs.     The  most    perfect  equitation  could  not  stand 


190  SPORTING   STORIES 

such  a  trial,  and  the  Captain  alighted  on  the  tan  on  his 
head. 

"  Now,  take  that  fellow  out,"  said  Sefifart,  and  before 
O'Flanagan  knew  where  he  was,  two  grooms  caught  him 
up  in  their  arms  like  a  bundle  of  straw,  and,  carrying  him 
thus  through  the  waiting  ladies,  dropped  him  into  the  road. 
When  he  picked  himself  out  of  the  mud,  he  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  Miss  Soapboiler  laughing  heartily 
at  his  discomfiture. 

But  the  king  of  horse-tamers  was,  without  doubt,  the 
famous  J.  S.  Rarey,  who  made  his  first  appearance  in 
England  in  the  year  1858.     His  story  is  a  curious  one. 

He  was  a  farmer  in  Ohio,  U.S.A.,  and  from  the  time  he 
was  a  lad  had  devoted  himself  to  breaking  and  taming 
colts,  and,  after  some  years,  was  so  successful  in  subjugating 
even  the  most  vicious  horses  that  he  published  a  book 
describing  in  full  his  method  of  dealing  with  horses  in  a 
humane  and  effective  way.  His  work,  however,  in  a  part 
of  the  world  where  everyone  is,  or  was,  supposed  to  know 
how  to  manage  the  greatest  "  cuss  "  on  four  legs  that  ever 
was  foaled,  did  not  pay  for  publishing;  but,  by  a  fortunate 
accident  for  him,  a  copy  of  the  book  fell  into  the  hands  of 
Mr  Goodenough,  a  horse-dealer  in  Toronto,  who,  with  the 
cuteness  of  a  New  Englander,  saw  there  was  money  in  the 
notion  were  it  worked  properly. 

Mr  Goodenough  therefore  wrote  to  the  Ohio  farmer, 
saying  he  would  run  the  affair  and  give  half  profits,  if 
Mr  Rarey  would  go  to  England  and  show  his  power  of 
horse-taming  ;  to  which  the  latter,  anxious  to  set  his  foot 
upon  English  soil,  agreed. 

Wisely  concluding  that  a  copy  of  a  Far- West  American 
book  could  never  have  reached  this  part  of  the  world,  the 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  of  Mr  Rarey  obtained  an 
interview  with  General  Eyre,  then  commanding  in  Canada  ; 
and,  as  the  Toronto  dealer  was  a  man  who  could  talk  a 
milestone  into  the  belief  that  all  he  said  was  gospel,  the 
General,  after  witnessing  one  of  Rarey's  exhibitions,  gave 
him  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  highest  personages  here. 
Some  years  afterwards  Mr  Goodenough  said  to  a  friend  of 
mine:     "The  reason    I    succeeded    so  well   in    my  Rarey 


SOME  NOTABLE  HORSE-BREAKERS  191 

speculation  was  that  I  went  first  to  Buckingham  Palace,  and 
then  slid  down  upon  the  aristocracy  and  all  below  them." 

Mr  Goodenough  made  friends,  after  that,  with  Mr  Joseph 
Henderson,  of  Piccadilly ;  and  with  his  general-in-chief,  Mr 
George  Rice,  he,  through  Rarey,  established  a  reputation  by 
taming  a  black  thoroughbred  horse,  which  had  been  returned 
on  the  dealer's  hands  by  Sir  Matthew  White  Ridley  as  a 
brute  that  could  neither  be  ridden,  driven,  nor  groomed, 
through  "  pure  cussedness."  Having  thus  secured  a  foot- 
hold, Mr  Goodenough,  for  self  and  partner,  managed  to  get 
the  Messrs  Tattersall  on  his  side,  who,  seeing  there  was  a 
good  deal  in  the  system,  especially  as  it  might  do  away  with 
much  cruelty  and  unnecessary  severity  in  the  breaking-in 
of  well-bred,  high-spirited  animals,  gave  Mr  Rarey  their  full 
support.  A  subscription  list  was  opened,  terms  lO  guineas 
per  member,  the  members  to  number  500  at  least,  and  agree 
not  to  divulge  the  secret  to  outsiders  under  the  penalty 
of  ;^5oo.  Of  this  fund  Messrs  Tattersall  became  the 
treasurers. 

But,  despite  this  distinguished  patronage,  the  Rarey 
scheme  was  a  failure,  and  the  subscription  list  did  not  half 
fill  until  the  sensational  triumph  over  Cruiser,  which  came 
about  in  the  following  way. 

In  the  Morning  Post  of  2nd  March  1858  there  appeared 
the  following  challenge : — 

"  Mr  Rarey  is  a  public  man,  and  of  course  exposed  to 
criticism.  Some  of  his  experiments  have  been  successful, 
but  there  has  not  been  time  enough  to  develop  whether 
the  docility  of  those  horses  upon  which  he  has  operated  is 
as  durable  as  he  alleges.  If,  however,  he  would  'walk  over 
the  course '  and  set  criticism  at  defiance,  let  him  go  down 
one  morning  to  Marrels  Green,  with  a  few  of  his  aristocratic 
friends,  and  try  Cruiser,  and  if  he  can  ride  him  as  a  hack 
I  guarantee  him  immortality  and  an  amount  of  money  that 
would  make  a  British  Bank  director's  mouth  water.  The 
initiated  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  selecting  Cruiser  ; 
but,  as  the  public  may  be  ignorant  of  him,  I  will  append 
some  particulars  of  his  history.  Cruiser  was  the  property 
of  Lord  Dorchester,  and  was  a  favourite  for  the  Derby  in 
Wild  Dayrell's  year,  but  broke  down  about  a  month  before 


192  SPORTING   STORIES 

the  race.  Like  all  horses  of  Venison's  blood,  his  temper 
was  not  of  the  mildest  kind,  and  his  owner  was  glad  to 
get  rid  of  him.  When  started  for  Rawclifife  the  man  who 
had  him  in  charge  was  told  on  no  account  to  put  him  in  a 
stable  as  he  would  never  get  him  out.  Of  course,  the 
injunction  was  disregarded  ;  for,  when  the  man  wanted  some 
refreshment  he  put  Cruiser  in  the  public  stable  and  left 
him,  and  to  get  him  out  the  roof  had  to  be  ripped  off.  At 
Rawcliffe,  Cruiser  was  always  exhibited  by  a  groom  with 
a  ticket-of-leave  bludgeon  in  his  hand,  and  few  were  bold 
enough  to  venture  into  the  animal's  enclosure,"  etc. 

This,  however,  was  but  a  poor  description  of  the  doings 
of  this  amiable  animal.  For  months  he  had  been  tormented 
by  a  huge  bit,  his  head  encased  in  a  complication  of  iron 
bars  and  plates,  and  his  body  loaded  with  chains ;  he  once 
broke  an  iron  bar  an  inch  in  diameter  in  two  with  his  teeth, 
smashed  the  heavy  planks  of  his  stall  to  splinters,  and 
would  kick  and  scream  and  yell  for  ten  minutes  together 
as  though  possessed  by  a  demon. 

Knowing  all  this,  and  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
Rarey  accepted  the  challenge,  and,  accompanied  only  by 
Lord  Dorchester,  proceeded  to  the  encounter.  "  Whatever 
happens,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  speak  or  interfere. 
At  least,  not  till  you  see  me  down  under  his  feet  and  him 
worrying  me." 

This  compact  made,  he  resolutely  walked  into  the  arena, 
which  consisted  of  a  loose  box  divided  by  a  half-door  of 
some  four  feet  or  more  in  height.  Stepping  quietly  up  to 
it,  he  leaned  his  arm  upon  this  barrier,  so  that  it  was  just 
covered  by  the  iron  bar  that  ran  along  the  top,  and  looked 
fixedly  at  the  savage  he  intended  to  tame.  Cruiser,  from 
whom  muzzle,  headstall,  and  all  such  impedimenta  had 
been  removed  by  some  mechanical  arrangements — for 
none  dared  go  near  enough  to  touch  him — made  his  usual 
dash  to  pounce  on  the  intrepid  stranger.  Rarey  stood 
perfectly  motionless,  neither  altering  his  attitude  or  ex- 
pression in  the  slightest  degree. 

Thinking  he  had  his  enemy  by  the  arm,  the  horse  seized 
and  worried  the  bar  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  it  through. 
Again  and  again,  retiring   for  an  impetus  to  the  farther 


SOME  NOTABLE  HORSE-BREAKERS  193 

corner,  he  rushed  at  the  mysterious  stranger,  actually 
screaming  in  the  uncontrollable  violence  of  his  rage. 
Rarey  sustained  these  successive  charges  with  the  same 
sang-froid  that  he  had  shown  at  the  commencement  of  the 
engagement.  At  length,  after  more  than  an  hour  of  this 
wild  scene,  with  frantic  fury  on  one  side  and  science  on  the 
other,  the  redoubtable  Cruiser,  exhausted,  dripping  with 
sweat,  and  completely  puzzled  in  his  equine  mind  as  to 
this  figure,  which  he  could  no  longer  believe  to  be  human, 
came  quietly  close  to  it,  and  touched  it  with  his  nose;  then 
Rarey  threw  open  the  half-door  and  walked  boldly  up  to 
him.  Perfectly  quiet,  the  animal  made  no  further  attempt 
to  molest  him,  and  the  conquest  was  complete.  Three 
hours  afterwards  Lord  Dorchester  was  on  Cruiser's  back, 
where  he  had  not  been  for  three  years  previously,  and 
Rarey  rode  him  as  a  hack  ;  after  that  he  did  "  walk  over 
the  course." 

After  the  wonderful  cure  of  Cruiser,  the  five-hundred  list 
not  only  filled,  but  overflowed,  Messrs  Rarey  and  Good- 
enough  clearing  over  iS^20,ooo.  But  not  a  minute  too  soon, 
as  an  enterprising  firm  of  publishers,  having  procured  a 
copy  of  Rarey's  book  from  America,  issued  a  cheap  edition 
of  it  here.     That  put  a  stopper  on  the  ten-guinea  payments. 

Rarey's  great  hit,  as  I  have  said,  was  with  Cruiser; 
but  he  had  some  much  worse  subjects  than  that  to  deal 
with,  one  of  which  took  hours  to  snare.  His  straps  were 
all  broken,  and  he  had  to  extemporise  some.  Still,  it  was 
not  taming  savages,  but  finding  them,  that  seemed  his 
greatest  difficulty.  When  he  heard  of  the  Cretingham 
Hero,  he  rushed  at  once  to  Ipswich,  and  discovered  after  he 
had  borrowed  the  horse  that  the  Great  Eastern  Railway 
Company,  on  the  pretext  that  he  was  a  "lion  rampant," 
would  only  bring  him  by  special  train.  However,  it  paid 
Rarey  to  agree  to  their  terms,  as  he  made  something  like 
;^500  out  of  him  at  the  Alhambra. 

King  of  Oude,  a  big,  lop-eared  subject  who  had  won 
three  Queen's  Plates,  was  also  a  paying  "  spec,"  as  Rarey 
gave  only  ^30  for  him  and  netted  about  ;^300,  after  putting 
him  on  double  corn  allowance  for  four  days  to  mettle  him 
up.     It  was  money  well  laid  out,  as  he  fought  like  a  tiger. 

13 


194  SPORTING   STORIES 

"  The  King  "  was  a  rare  trumpeter  as  he  stood  in  his  stall 
near  the  wings,  and  it  was  these  loud  defiances  that  worked 
up  the  audience  so  well  before  Rarey  led  him  in. 

When  he  had  King  of  Oude  or  any  other  savage  before 
the  public,  Rarey  always  took  care  to  pile  up  the  agony  a 
little  by  judicious  stimulants,  and  then  the  shouts  of 
"  Bravo,  Rarey ! "  rang  through  the  house.  Mr  Rice's 
box  at  one  time  had  three  stallions  and  a  zebra  in  it, 
braying  and  neighing  against  each  other  in  their  desire 
for  a  general  engagement.  When  the  King  of  Oude  had 
fairly  capitulated,  and  would  give  a  leg  for  the  asking, 
Rarey  offered  to  give  him  to  several  people;  but  as  the 
animal  was  lame  it  was  difficult  to  find  a  new  owner,  and  I 
do  not  know  what  became  of  him. 

An  attack  of  paralysis  seized  Rarey  in  1865  ;  but  he 
lingered  on  for  twelve  months,  and  he  had  practically  re- 
covered from  it  when  another  sudden  seizure  killed  him. 

Another  and  earlier  horse-tamer  hailed  from  the  Emerald 
Isle,  and  made  his  reputation  through  a  horse  called 
King  Pippin  which  was  brought  to  the  Curragh  for  the 
Spring  Meeting  of  1 864 — a  most  savage  brute.  He  would 
worry  any  person  within  his  reach ;  and,  if  he  had  an 
opportunity,  would  seize  his  rider  by  the  leg  with  his  teeth 
and  drag  him  from  his  back.  For  this  reason  he  was 
always  ridden  in  what  is  called  a  "sword" — a  strong  flat 
stick,  having  one  end  attached  to  the  cheek  of  the  bridle 
and  the  other  to  the  girth  of  the  saddle.  On  this  particular 
occasion,  nobody  could  get  near  enough  to  him  to  put  the 
bridle  upon  his  head.  It  being  Easter  Monday,  a  large 
crowd  had  assembled  at  the  Curragh,  and  one  countryman 
volunteered  to  bridle  the  horse;  but  no  sooner  had  he 
attempted  to  do  so  than  King  Pippin  seized  him  by  the 
shoulder  and  shook  him  as  a  terrier  will  a  rat.  Fortun- 
ately, on  such  occasions  an  Irishman  of  this  class  is  fond  of 
displaying  his  wardrobe,  and  if  he  has  three  coats  at  all  in 
the  world  he  will  put  them  all  on.  This  circumstance 
saved  the  man's  life,  and  he  escaped  with  little  injury 
beyond  the  total  ruin  of  his  holiday  clothes. 

At  this  time  there  was  living  near  Dublin  a  man  from 
County  Cork,  known  as  Con  Sullivan,  "  The  Whisperer," 


SOME  NOTABLE  HORSE-BREAKERS  195 

and  many  were  the  tales  told  of  his  success  in  taming 
unmanageable  horses.  That  evening  he  was  accordingly 
sent  for  ;  and  having  arrived,  and  being  requested  to  try  his 
skill  upon  King  Pippin,  he  fearlessly  walked  into  the  stable, 
closed  the  door,  and  remained  shut  up  with  him  all  night. 
In  the  morning  the  hitherto  "savager"  followed  him  like 
a  dog.  He  was  brought  out  the  same  evening  and  won 
a  race,  and  he  continued  docile  for  three  years,  when  his 
vice  returned,  and  then  he  killed  a  man,  for  which  he  was 
destroyed.  A  year  or  two  later  Colonel  Westenra  (after- 
wards Lord  Rossmore)  had  a  splendid  racehorse  named 
Rainbow,  whom  he  wished  to  run  at  the  Curragh ;  but  the 
horse  was  so  vicious  that  he  could  not  pull  him  out.  Lord 
Doneraile  said  he  knew  a  fellow  who  would  cure  the  brute. 
This  the  Colonel  utterly  refused  to  believe,  and  betted  him 
a  thousand  pounds  he  did  not.  On  this  Lord  Doneraile 
sent  for  Con  Sullivan,  whose  cognomen  of"  The  Whisperer" 
was  due  to  the  supposition  that  he  whispered  into  the 
horses'  ears.  When  he  was  told  the  state  of  the  Colonel's 
horse,  he  asked  if  he  might  go  into  his  stable.  "  Wait  till 
his  head  is  tied  up,"  said  the  groom.  "  No  occasion,"  said 
Con  ;  "  he  won't  bite  mey  So  in  he  went,  after  ordering  no 
one  to  follow  him  until  he  signalled,  then  shut  the  door.  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  signal  was  given.  Those  outside 
then  rushed  in  ;  and  found  the  horse  on  his  back,  playing 
like  a  kitten  with  the  Whisperer,  who  was  sitting  by  him. 
Both  appeared  exhausted,  particularly  the  man,  to  whom  it 
was  necessary  to  administer  brandy.  The  horse  was  per- 
fectly tame  and  gentle  from  that  day. 

The  latest  professor  of  the  art  of  horse-taming  was  Mr 
Loffler,  who  reduced  to  absolute  gentleness  the  notorious 
man-eating  Barcaldine,  who  savaged  every  groom  and 
stable-boy  that  came  within  his  reach. 

Mr  Loffler's  plan  was  to  give  Barcaldine  a  boxing-glove 
to  shake.  He  then  gradually  got  hold  of  the  horse's  ears, 
and  in  a  short  time  soothed  him.  Asked  if  he  were  not 
afraid  of  the  man-eater,  Mr  Loffler  replied :  "  Afraid  of 
Barcaldine  !  tut,  tut — I  would  drive  him  in  a  cab  at  this 
moment." 

When  Mr  Walton  brought  the  American  mare  Giroflee 


196  SPORTING   STORIES 

over  to  this  country  she  was  perfectly  docile,  but  before 
long  her  temper  became  so  violent  that  no  one  could 
approach  her  in  her  loose  box.  Under  these  circumstances, 
Mr  Walton  handed  her  over  to  Proffessor  Loffler  at  New- 
market, the  result  being  that  she  carried  off  several  events 
at  subsequent  meetings. 

The  following  story  may  be  said  to  be  an  example  of 
"  Rarey "  made  easy.  A  noted  coachman  (it  was  in  the 
days  of  stage-coaches)  had  been  taken  off  one  coach  and 
put  upon  another.  On  the  day  before  he  mounted  his  new 
box  he  was  told  by  the  former  whip  that  he  would  never 
get  along  with  the  team  he  was  to  start  with. 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  quid,"  said  the  new  man,  "  that  they'll  go 
with  me  as  quiet  as  lambs." 

•'  Done,"  said  the  other  ;  "  I'm  on." 

Next  morning  the  new  coachman  contrived  to  gain 
admittance  to  the  stables  at  a  very  early  hour,  locked  him- 
self in  with  the  team,  and,  taking  up  a  broomstick,  welted 
into  them  with  a  will,  shouting  all  the  while,  until  they 
were  ready  to  dash  through  the  walls.  When  he  took  the 
reins  a  few  hours  later  he  was  greeted  with  a  volley  of 
jokes  from  men  about  the  yard,  no  one  being  sharper  in  his 
witticisms  than  the  late  driver.  Just  before  starting,  the 
horses  became  a  little  restive  ;  but  a  roar  from  the  coach- 
man such  as  he  had  given  in  the  stable  started  them  off  at 
a  tearing  pace,  so  that  the  difficulty  was  to  hold  them  in, 
and,  greatly  to  the  mortification  of  the  loser  of  the  bet,  the 
least  sound  of  their  driver's  voice  kept  them  in  order. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HORSE-DEALERS  AND  HORSE- 
STEALERS 

I  THINK  it  was  Charles  Dickens  who  remarked  how  strange 
it  is  that  the  horse  exercises  a  deteriorating  influence  on 
the  men  that  are  brought  into  contact  with  him.  I  fear  the 
morals  of  horse-dealers,  amateur  or  professional,  have  not 
improved,  and  some  men  will  show  no  mercy  to  their 
dearest  friends  when  selling  a  horse. 

A  good  many  years  ago  there  used  to  hunt  with  the 
New  Forest  Hounds  a  notorious  character,  Dicky  Wise  by 
name.  Dicky  once  had  a  deal  with  a  sporting  butcher  of 
Southampton,  Jack  Hewitt,  who  horsed  one  or  two  coaches. 
Wise's  horse  was  a  rank  roarer,  and  the  butcher's  had  a 
bad  spavin,  but  they  agreed  to  exchange  without  examining 
each  other's  horses.  The  next  day  Hewitt  went  out  with 
the  hounds,  and  soon  discovered  the  roarer — but  said 
nothing  about  it.  The  following  day  Wise  rode  his  horse 
with  the  hounds,  and  on  his  return  he  passed  Hewitt  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  his  shop.  The  horse  was  going  on 
three  legs,  and  Wise  shouted  out,  "  No  friendship  in  horse- 
dealing,  Hewitt ;  there  is  no  friendship  in  horse-dealing." 

A  lie  told  in  the  course  of  a  horse  deal  is  considered  the 
most  venial  of  white  ones.  But  sometimes  a  double  entendre 
will  do  as  well.  For  example,  a  Scotch  laird  sold  a  horse 
to  an  Englishman  with  the  remark,  "  You  buy  the  horse  as 
you  see  him ;  but  he's  an  honest  beast!'  The  purchaser 
took  him  home,  and  on  the  way  the  horse  stumbled  and 
fell,  to  the  detriment  of  his  knees  and  the  rider's  head.  On 
this  the  angry  purchaser  went  to  the  laird,  and  remonstrated 
with  him  warmly.  "  I  supposed,  sir,  I  was  dealing  with  a 
gentleman  and  a  man  of  his  word."       I  only  told  you  he 

197 


198  SPORTING   STORIES 

was  an  honest  beast,"  said  the  laird  ;  "  and  he  is  that,  for  he 
has  often  threatened  to  come  down  with  me,  and  I  kenned 
he  would  keep  his  word  soon." 

An  Irishman,  you  may  go  bail,  would  have  had  quite  as 
witty  an  excuse.  Not  long  ago  an  Irishman  told  me  this 
yarn : — 

A  Cockney  sportsman  who  was  amongst  us  had  bought 
"  a  norse  "  two  days  before  the  local  meet.  There  was  as 
bad  a  "  spec "  on  the  animal's  eye  as  there  was  in  the 
purchaser's  bargain ;  and  he  had  a  trifling  thickness  of 
breath  which  the  Irish  dealer  said  was  only  a  "  cowld,"  and 
a  bit  of  a  blemish  on  one  knee  which  was  only  a  mark  on 
his  coat.  In  short,  the  horse  was  a  rip,  and  at  the  first  stifif 
fence  he  shot  his  rider  over  his  head  and  broke  the  other 
knee.  The  Cockney  threatened  the  seller  with  a  lawsuit, 
at  the  same  time  appealing  to  his  conscience  how  he  could 
sell  such  a  horse  as  sound,  or  praise  him  as  he  did.  "Upon 
my  word,"  says  Pat,  "  and  that's  as  good  as  my  bond,  he's 
as  sound  as  a  bell,  for  he'll  go  when  you  touch  him ;  and  as 
for  his  character,  all  I  said  was,  that  he  would  run  against 
any  horse  or  mare  that  you  could  bring  into  the  field  ;  and 
as  for  jumping,  let  him  alone  for  that." 

It  is  now  only  fair  to  give  a  specimen  of  English  trickery 
to  supplement  these  illustrations  of  Scotch  and  Irish  artful- 
ness. Lord  Chief  Justice  Alvanley  told  this  story,  of  which 
he  was  himself  the  hero — or  victim  : — 

"  Some  years  ago,  an  action  was  brought  against  a 
gentleman  respecting  a  horse  he  had  bought  to  go  the 
circuit  upon  (in  those  days,  barristers  went  on  circuit  on 
horseback).  The  horse  was  taken  home;  the  barrister 
mounted,  but  he  would  not  stir  a  step.  '  How  came 
you  to  sell  me  a  horse  that  would  not  go  ? '  demanded  the 
barrister.  '  I  sold  a  horse  warranted  sound,'  replied  the 
dealer,  '  and  sound  he  is ;  but  as  for  going,  I  never  thought 
he  would  go.' " 

A  gentleman  (we  will  call  him  Mr  Smith)  well  known 
in  sporting  circles,  being  in  Dublin,  was  persuaded  to  go  to 
a  dealer's  stables  to  look  at  a  horse  that  was  highly  recom- 
mended to  him.  Mr  Smith  at  once  saw  that  it  was  not  the 
kind  he  wanted.     The  dealer  made  no  attempt  to  persuade 


HORSE-DEALERS   AND   STEALERS    199 

him,  but  proposed,  with  "true  Irish  hospitality,"  that  he 
should  come  and  have  a  bit  of  dinner  with  him  and  his 
wife,  as  it  was  just  ready.  After  some  demur,  Smith  con- 
sented. Dinner  over,  whisky  punch  came  on.  The  dealer 
was  a  very  amusing  fellow,  and  time  slipped  away ;  so  did 
the  punch,  and  ultimately  the  guest's  memory  with  it. 

Next  morning  he  awoke  at  his  hotel  with  no  idea  as  to 
how  he  got  there,  and  with  a  splitting  headache.  While  he 
was  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts,  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  at  the  cry  of  "  Come  in ! "  a  shock-headed 
individual  entered.  "  Please,  yer  honour,  Fve  brought  the 
horse,  and  master  says  I'm  to  take  a  cheque  for  ^^150  back 
with  me."  "  Cheque !  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? " 
demanded  the  astonished  Saxon.  "  Sure,  sir,  its  the  baste 
you  bought  last  night."  "  But  I  refused  the  horse."  "  So 
you  did  at  first — ah,  whist  now  !  but  I  thought  your  honour 
had  had  a  drop  of  the  cratur  when  you  saw  me  ride  him 
over  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  pratie  patch  ;  for  ye  couldn't 
stand  but  for  the  master's  arm,  and  was  for  putting  the 
wrong  end  of  the  cigar  in  your  mouth.  But  ye  bought  it 
fair  and  square,  and  it  was  meself  that  heard  it,  and  saw  ye 
clasp  hands  on  the  bargain.  And,  sure,  as  I  carried  you  to 
the  car  the  master  said,  '  Take  the  horse  early  in  the 
mornin',  Mike,  and  the  gentleman  will  give  ye  the  cheque, 
and  a  thrifle  for  yourself.'  So  I'll  take  the  cheque,  and  be 
getting  back  home  again."  Finding  he  was  fairly  in  for 
it,  and  not  caring  for  the  story  to  get  abroad,  he  took  the 
horse,  which,  though  not  a  beauty  to  look  at,  proved  a  good 
one  to  go. 

It  is  never  safe  for  an  amateur  to  dabble  in  horse- 
dealing  ;  even  the  late  Sir  George  Stephens,  shrewd  lawyer 
though  he  was,  and  well  versed  in  horse-lore  too,  as  he 
showed  in  his  racy  book,  Adventures  of  a  Gentleman  in 
Search  of  a  Horse,  was  nevertheless  a  victim  to  the  tricks 
of  the  dealers. 

One  morning  Sir  George's  eye  was  caught  by  an  ad- 
vertisement in  the  Times,  that  a  chestnut  horse  was  for 
sale  at  a  livery-stable  of  high  respectability.  He  went  to 
the  place,  and  found  a  handsome  animal,  with  good  action, 
and  not  a  fault  or  a  blemish  that  he  could  discover.     He 


200  SPORTING   STORIES 

mounted  him,  rode  him  for  an  hour,  found  him  perfectly 
quiet,  and  purchased  him  there  and  then,  with  a  warranty. 
For  two  whole  days  he  justified  the  seller's  encomiums. 
On  the  third,  as  Sir  George  was  going  to  mount  him,  he 
raised  his  near  hind  leg  and  kicked  the  stirrup-iron  away  ; 
he  repeated  this  performance  again  and  again,  whichever 
side  his  owner  tried  to  mount.  Sir  George  tried  him 
without  the  saddle,  and  then  he  crouched  like  a  camel. 
That  day  the  horse  kicked  an  ostler  and  laid  him  up ; 
the  next  morning  he  kicked  another.  He  was  sent  to 
the  hammer  ;  but  before  he  was  sold  he  kicked  a  third  of 
Sir  George's  servants,  and  within  a  month  killed  the  horse- 
dealer  who  bought  him.  Curious  to  know  the  reason  for 
its  being  so  docile  for  the  first  three  days,  Sir  George 
tipped  one  of  the  men  at  the  livery-stables  where  he  had 
purchased  the  horse.  It  had  been  tied  up  to  the  rack  day 
and  night  for  a  week  before,  and  never  allowed  to  sleep 
except  standing.  This  was  discipline  enough  to  tame  a 
tiger. 

Sir  Francis  Doyle  tells  an  amusing  story  of  horse- 
dealing  in  which  the  late  Sir  William  Harcourt  figured. 
Sir  William  had  bought  a  hunter  for  lOO  guineas, 
which,  after  using  for  a  season,  he  put  out  to  livery.  He 
was  at  this  time  a  barrister  with  a  large  practice,  and, 
immersed  in  his  briefs,  he  forgot  all  about  the  horse.  At 
last,  when  going  to  Scotland  for  the  shooting  season,  he 
wrote  to  the  livery-stable  keeper  and  offered  it  to  him  for 
^70.  The  offer  was  accepted  ;  but  when  he  applied  for  the 
money,  instead  of  a  cheque,  a  bill  for  £71,  los.  was  forwarded 
to  him  for  keep,  shoeing,  physicking,  and  all  kinds  of  other 
expenses.  "  But,"  added  the  creditor,  "  I  will  not  insist  on 
the  odd  thirty  shillings,  and  if  you  like  to  send  me  a 
receipt  for  £^0  we  will  cry  quits."  And  the  victim  had 
no  alternative  but  to  comply. 

One  of  the  wise  sayings  of  old  John  Warde  was,  "  Never 
believe  a  word  any  man  says  about  a  horse  he  wishes  to 
sell — no,  not  even  a  bishop  "  ;  and  that  he  was  justified  in  not 
even  exempting  "  the  cloth  "  from  suspicion  the  following 
anecdote  proves : — 

Many  years   ago   a   French   gentleman    named  Lafane 


HORSE-DEALERS   AND    STEALERS   201 

lodged  a  complaint  before  the  Bath  magistrates  against  a 
clergyman  who  was  also  a  bit  of  a  horse-coper.  The 
Frenchman's  version  of  the  transaction  was  as  follows  : — 

"  I  go  to  buy  a  horse  of  him,  and  he  ask  me  40  guineas. 
I  say  '  No,  by  gar,  I  will  not  give  that ! '  '  Well,'  says 
the  clergyman,  'you  shall  have  him  for  35  guineas,  but 
d n  my  eye  you  shall  have  him  no  less.'" 

Here  the  magistrate  interrupted  with,  "You  could  not 
surely  think  of  dealing  with  a  clergyman  who  was  so 
ready  to  swear  ?  "     To  which  the  Frenchman  replied  : — 

"  I  thought  a  clergyman  would  not  swear  to  anything 
but  truth,  so  I  paid  him  the  money.  Veil,  I  got  the  horse, 
and  he  so  beautiful.  Then  I  put  him  in  Bell's  stables,  and 
I  ride  him  next  day,  but  he  go  upon  three  legs ;  and  then 
I  give  him  a  doctor.  But  then  he  valk  upon  his  knee,  and 
I  say,  '  By  gar,  if  you  valk  upon  your  knee,  I  do  not  valk 
upon  your  back  ! '" 

"You  mean  the  horse  was  unsound,"  suggested  the 
Bench. 

"  Otii,  out ;  he  got  the  gout." 

"  The  gout !     Horses  do  not  have  the  gout." 

"  But  he  was  a  clergyman's  horse,  and  they  both  have 
gout :  the  horse's  leg  was  so  swelled,  and  so  was  the 
clergyman's." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  sent  back  the  horse  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  clergyman  said,  *  D n  his  eye  if  he  would 

have  him  back';  so  I  asked  Mr  Bell  to  buy  him  for  35 
guineas ;  but  he  said,  '  No,  he  would  not  give  more  than 
£$ ' ;  so  I  keep  him  in  the  stable  for  twelve  weeks,  and 
then  I  sent  him  to  be  sold,  and  how  much  do  you  think 
I  got?" 

"  Perhaps  £^  ?  Well,  I  think  you  received  more  than 
you  might  have  expected." 

'^Receive!  I  receive  nothing.  I  got  ;^I5  to  pay  for 
de  dinner." 

"  Dinner?  " 

"  For  my  horse's  dinner  for  twelve  weeks  in  Mr  Bell's 
stable ! " 

Roars  of  laughter  greeted  the  unfortunate  Frenchman. 
The    magistrate    declared    that   he    could    not    help    him, 


202  SPORTING    STORIES 

though  no  doubt  he  had  been  very  badly  used,  and  the 
victim  of  clerical  craft  left  the  Court  a  sadder  and  a  wiser 
man. 

The  Marquis  of  Hastings,  sharp  as  he  fancied  himself, 
was  once  "  had  "  by  a  dealer,  though  not  to  the  extent  the 
dealer  intended  or  expected.  The  latter  had  a  very  showy- 
looking  horse  named  Glenduck  that  had  won  a  sprint  race 
at  one  of  the  Newmarket  meetings,  and  Lord  Hastings, 
without  consulting  John  Day,  his  trainer,  agreed  to  give 
^2700  for  it.  This  was  on  the  eve  of  departure  from  the 
meeting.  Without  a  moment's  delay,  the  dealer  sent  the 
horse  to  Day's  stables,  and  returned  to  London.  The  sight 
of  the  animal  was  the  first  intimation  Day  had  of  its  purchase. 
Suspecting  that  something  was  wrong,  John  struck  the 
animal  sharply  across  the  belly  with  his  walking-stick, 
which  made  him  cough  violently,  revealing  what  John  had 
suspected,  that  the  horse  was  broken-winded.  Early  next 
morning,  Day  interviewed  the  Marquis  at  his  town  house, 
and  the  result  was  that  the  bargain  was  to  be  cancelled 
on  the  best  terms  possible.  John  was  not  too  soon,  for  at 
ten  o'clock  the  dealer  called  for  his  cheque.  After  some 
blustering,  he  had  to  cave  in,  and  take  i^200  as  an  offset. 
You  may  be  sure  that  John  Day  got  his  blessings. 

I  remember  hearing  another  story  in  which  the  tables 
were  turned  on  the  horse-dealer.  The  purchaser  had  bought 
a  good-looking  horse  for  £^0,  and  thought  he  had  made 
a  rare  bargain.  He  paid  the  money  on  the  spot,  and 
had  the  horse  led  to  his  stables  at  once,  lest  the  vendor 
should  repent  of  his  short-sightedness  in  selling  the  horse 
so  cheap.  Meeting  a  friend  on  his  way  home,  he  asked 
him  to  come  and  inspect  the  new  purchase.  The  friend, 
who  was  an  expert  in  horse-flesh,  examined  the  horse 
closely,  and  then  exclaimed,  "  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you've 
been  swindled  :  the  horse  is  blind."  At  first  the  purchaser 
refused  to  believe  this  statement,  but  it  was  proved  to  be 
beyond  doubt.  Thereupon  he  at  once  rushed  out  in 
search  of  the  vendor.  He  found  him,  and  going  up  to  him 
said,  "  Look  here,  I  find  I  paid  you  a  pound  too  much. 
I've  given  you  £^1  instead  of  £10."  "I  don't  think 
you    have,"    replied    the   unsuspecting   dealer ;   "  but   here 


HORSE-DEALERS   AND   STEALERS   203 

are  the  notes ;  you  can  count  them  for  yourself."  So 
saying,  he  handed  the  roll  of  £i  notes  over  to  the 
innocent-looking  purchaser,  who  counted  them  carefully, 
then  calmly  pocketed  them,  and  said,  "  Thanks !  they're 
all  right ;  and  now  you  may  send  to  my  stable  for  that 
old  blind  crock  of  yours.     Good  day." 

Time  was  when  horse-stealing  was  punished  with  death 
in  England,  and  there  are  still  parts  of  America  where  it  is 
safer  to  kill  a  man  than  to  steal  a  horse. 

One  summer  afternoon  a  man  in  a  Western  mining 
camp,  having  tracked  his  two  mules  and  one  horse  for 
half  a  mile  and  discovered  that  a  man's  tracks  with  spur- 
marks  followed  them,  came  back  to  "  town  "  and  told  the 
"  boys "  who  were  loitering  about  the  saloon  that  some 
Mexican  had  stolen  the  animals.  Such  news  naturally 
demanded  drinks  all  round.  "  Do  you  know,  gentlemen," 
said  one  who  assumed  the  leadership,  "  that  just  to  shoot 
these  Greasers  ain't  the  best  way ;  give  'em  a  fair  jury 
trial,  and  rope  'em  up  with  all  the  majesty  of  the  law. 
That's  the  cure!" 

There  was  a  smack  of  judicial  moderation  about  this 
proposal  which  commended  itself  to  the  "  boys."  To 
shoot  a  man  at  sight  was  a  process  which  had  become 
monotonous.  They  were  glad  of  a  novelty  :  something, 
too,  which  would  have  a  legal  air  about  it.  As  they 
returned  to  the  veranda  a  Mexican  walked  over  the  hill 
brow,  jingling  his  long  spurs  as  an  accompaniment  to  the 
waltz  he  was  whistling.  The  advocate  of  law,  pointing  to 
the  stranger,  said  in  an  undertone,  "  That's  him ! "  The 
unsuspecting  Mexican  strolled  towards  the  saloon  ;  a  rush, 
a  struggle,  and,  bound  hand  and  foot,  he  lay  on  his  back 
in  the  bar-room.  "  String  him  up ! "  shouted  a  score  of 
voices.  But  the  advocate  of  law  and  justice  bade  them 
remember  their  recent  resolution,  and  give  the  prisoner  a 
fair  trial.  The  fact  that  the  Mexican  did  not  understand 
a  word  they  were  saying  did  not,  in  their  eyes,  prejudice 
the  case  in  the  least. 

A  jury  was  quickly  gathered  in  the  street,  and  hurried 
behind  the  bar.  The  man  who  had  suggested  a  fair  trial 
briefly  stated  the  case  to  the  jury,  who  were  then  shoved 


204  SPORTING    STORIES 

into  the  "  poker-room  "  to  consider  their  verdict.  Presently 
the  noise  in  the  bar-room  died  away  to  complete  silence, 
but  from  down  the  caiion  came  confused  sounds  as  of 
disorderly  cheering.  Then  the  tramping  of  many  feet,  the 
ring  of  voices,  and  the  clinking  glasses  announced  that  the 
bar  was  full  again.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  jury-room 
door,  and  a  dozen  voices  asked  what  the  verdict  was. 

"  Not  guilty,"  was  the  prompt  reply  of  the  foreman. 

A  volley  of  oaths  burst  from  the  "  boys."  Pistols  were 
pointed  ominously  towards  the  jury.  "  You'll  have  to  do 
better  than  that,"  said  the  leader  of  the  loafers  ;  "  we'll  give 
you  half  an  hour  to  consider." 

At  the  expiration  of  the  half-hour  the  door  was  opened 
again,  and,  "  What  is  your  verdict,  gentlemen  ? "  asked  the 
spokesman  of  the  "  boys." 

"Guilty." 

"  Correct.  You  can  come  out.  We  hung  him  an 
hour  ago." 

The  jury  came  out,  and  the  "  boys  "  stood  them  drinks ; 
and  when,  after  a  time,  the  town  resumed  its  tranquillity, 
it  was  allowed  at  more  than  one  saloon  that  "  Mexicans  '11 
know  enough  to  let  white  men's  stock  alone  after  this,"  and 
the  "  boys  "  exchanged  the  belief  that  this  sort  of  thing 
was  better  and  more  sensible  than  "  nipping  'em  at  sight." 

Toward  sunset  the  bar-tender  concluded  to  sweep  some 
dust  out  of  the  poker-room  back  door.  He  was  surprised 
to  find  the  missing  horse  dozing  under  the  shadow  of  an 
oak,  and  the  two  lost  mules  masticating  playing-cards,  of 
which  some  bushels  lay  in  a  dusty  pile.  Then  he  suddenly 
remembered  that  the  animals  had  been  there  all  day  ;  but, 
as  the  Mexican  was  dangling  in  mid-air  half  a  mile  away, 
it  was  too  late  to  repair  his  little  aberration  of  memory,  so, 
like  a  wise  man,  he  held  his  peace. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE  ISLE  OF  MAN  AND  THE  FIRST 
DERBY,  AND  GOODWOOD 

Visitors  to  the  Isle  of  Man  nowadays  find  the  place  very 
different  from  what  it  was  when  I  knew  it  fifty  odd  years 
ago.  It  was  then  hardly  known  to  most  Englishmen,  and 
there  was  a  general  impression  that  it  was  a  mere  haunt 
of  smugglers,  absconding  debtors,  and  remittance  men. 
Bishop  Bowstead,  when  he  went  over  to  take  possession  of 
the  See  of  Sodor  and  Man  in  the  year  1838,  looked  upon 
his  diocese  as  a  savage  one,  and,  writing  home  to  his 
friends  after  his  arrival,  quoted  the  words  of  the  Apostle 
Paul,  "  The  barbarous  people  showed  us  no  small  kind- 
ness." Time  was,  indeed,  when  it  was  reputed  to  be 
the  snipe-shooter's  paradise;  and  John  Mytton,  the  mad 
Squire  of  Halston,  used  frequently  to  go  there  to 
shoot. 

It  has  no  such  reputation  now.  I  have  killed  a  good 
many  snipe  and  woodcock  there  in  days  gone  by,  but  even 
then  game  was  scarce.  A  man  might  think  himself  lucky 
indeed  if  he  picked  up  half  a  dozen  snipe  and  a  couple  of 
woodcock,  with  perhaps  an  odd  hare  and  a  brace  or  two  of 
partridges,  in  a  twelve-hours'  tramp.  I  have  been  out  all 
day  and  bagged  but  a  couple  of  snipe  and  a  hare.  But 
more  than  once  I  have  put  up  a  "wisp"  of  50  or  60 
snipe  in  one  little  marshy  four-acre  meadow.  They  had 
evidently  just  landed  from  a  long  sea  journey  ;  they  lay 
close,  and  when  scattered  afforded  capital  sport. 

Unlicensed  gunners  swarmed;  for  old  flint  muskets, 
transformed  at  the  cost  of  a  few  shillings  into  percussion- 
locks,  were  in  the   hands   of  every   loafer   in    the   place. 

205 


206  SPORTING   STORIES 

These  had  been  pillaged  from  wrecks,  for  the  Manxmen 
were  inveterate  wreckers. 

After  the  brig  Lily  and  forty  men  were  blown  into  frag- 
ments on  the  4th  of  December  1854  in  the  sound 
between  the  Calf  of  Man  and  the  mainland,  I  saw  kegs 
of  powder  drying  before  a  turf  fire  in  more  than  one 
cottage  !  With  this  powder  and  their  percussion-guns,  all 
the  riff-raff  of  the  coast  used  to  go  gunning. 

They  would  lie  about  for  ducks — track  hares  to  their 
formes  in  the  snow  and  butcher  them — mark  down  coveys 
of  partridges  and  massacre  them  sitting,  with  volleys. 
Ground-game  and  partridges  were  almost  annihilated. 
The  late  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Keys,  however, — Sir  John 
Goldie  Taubman, — at  one  time  preserved  Douglas  Head 
for  coursing,  and  hares  were  pretty  numerous  there  for  a 
while.  But  the  poachers  soon  destroyed  them,  and  I  do 
not  remember  that  any  other  landowners  attempted  to  pre- 
serve game,  probably  because  they  felt  that  the  poachers 
were  too  strong  for  them. 

I  have  never  seen  larger  hares  than  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 
It  was  not  uncommon  to  find  them  weighing  12  lbs., 
and  I  once  killed  one  which  pulled  the  beam  at  over  13  lbs. 
That  hare  is  still  talked  about  as  "the  big  Bellamona 
hare." 

But  to  racing  men  there  is  a  peculiar  interest  attaching 
to  the  Isle  of  Man,  for  it  was  there  that  the  Derby  Stakes 
were  first  run  for.  The  narrow  strip  of  turf  which  separates 
the  bays  of  Castletown  and  Derby-haven  was  the  scene, 
and  is  still  known  as  the  "Race-course,"  though  no  races 
have  been  held  there  for  a  hundred  years,  and  the  ground 
is  now  converted  into  golf-links.  It  was  in  162 1,  when  the 
Earls  of  Derby  were  still  lords  of  Man,  that  these  races 
were  established ;  and  the  Derby  Plate,  to  which  the  Earl 
contributed  handsomely,  was  to  be  competed  for  every 
year  at  Easter  on  the  race-course  at  Castletown.  The 
present  Derby  Stakes,  as  everyone,  I  suppose,  knows,  were 
founded  by  Edward  Stanley,  twelfth  Earl  of  Derby,  in 
1780. 

The  noble  Earl  who  founded  the  Derby  Stakes  only  won 
them  once,  namely  in  1787,  with  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  named 


FIRST    DERBY   AND   GOODWOOD   207 

in  honour  of  his  second  wife,  Miss  Farren,  the  famous 
actress,  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in  love  while  she  was 
playing  Lady  Teazle. 

Up  to  four  years  old  Sir  Peter  Teazle  won  all  his  races ; 
but  he  broke  down  at  Newmarket,  and  was  put  to  the  stud. 
His  success  there  was  extraordinary  :  he  sired  more  winners 
than  any  other  horse  on  the  Turf. 

In  1794  his  stock  began  to  show  its  excellence,  and  the 
American  Consul  offered  the  Earl  7000  guineas  for  the 
horse — an  unheard-of  price  in  those  days.  But  his  lord- 
ship declined  the  offer,  saying  that  he  had  already  been 
offered  10,000  guineas  for  him. 

Lord  Derby  was  more  fortunate  in  his  efforts  to  win  the 
Oaks,  of  which  he  was  also  the  founder ;  for  his  fillies 
Bridget  and  Heroine  twice  placed  the  ladies'  race  to  his 
credit. 

Sir  Peter  lived  to  be  thirty  years  old.  Lord  Derby  was 
sixty  years  on  the  Turf;  he  attended  the  big  meetings  in 
a  coach  and  six  with  a  retinue  of  servants.  Many  memen- 
toes of  him  are  still  preserved.  The  picture  of  his  huntsman, 
Jonathan  Griffin,  on  his  grey  horse  Spanker  may  be  seen 
in  many  a  roadside  inn  in  Surrey,  while  the  likeness  of  his 
groom  Story  hangs  at  Knowsley.  Of  this  worthy  it  is  told 
that  one  day,  while  he  was  dining,  somebody  came  running 
in  to  tell  him  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  in  his  stable. 
'■'  Then  he  may  wait  till  I  have  done  my  dinner,"  was  the 
answer.  And  the  old  curmudgeon  did  not  hurry  himself 
either. 

The  thirteenth  Earl  did  not  care  for  racing;  but  the 
next  of  the  race  inherited  all  his  grandfather's  love  of  the 
Turf,  and  was  fortunate  in  his  ventures.  During  the 
twenty-one  years  that  John  Scott  ruled  his  stud  he 
owned  in  all  243  horses,  54  of  which  were  winners ;  their 
winnings  amounting  in  all  to  ^^94,000 — a  total  which 
covered  all  his  racing  expenses.  He  never  won  a  Derby 
or  a  St  Leger,  however,  and  the  Oaks  only  once,  in  185 1, 
with  Iris. 

In  the  spring  of  1801  the  following  announcement 
appeared  : — "  The  new  race-course  on  the  Harroway,  near 
Goodwood,    is    now    completely    formed    for    sport,   and 


208  SPORTING    STORIES 

much  admired  by  the  acknowledged  amateurs  of  the 
Turf." 

Such  was  the  commencement  of  the  famous  Goodwood 
Races,  the  first  meeting  being  held  in  1802.  The  then  Duke 
of  Richmond  was  in  his  sixty-sixth  year  when  he  instituted 
them,  and  died  five  years  afterwards.  It  was  his  grand- 
nephew  who  raised  the  races  to  something  like  their  present 
importance  in  the  Racing  Calendar. 

Goodwood  early  in  the  nineteenth  century  was  almost 
purely  local,  and  as  such  was  looked  forward  to  by  all  the 
South  Country  folks  as  the  great  event  of  the  year.  Houses 
were  filled  with  guests  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom,  and 
there  was  hardly  a  cottar  who  had  not  a  relative  down  for 
a  few  days. 

The  Grand  Stand,  a  small  wooden  erection  with  a 
thatched  roof,  was  occupied  by  the  principal  families  of 
the  neighbourhood ;  while  the  farmers,  trades-people,  and 
labourers  took  up  their  station  in  every  kind  of  vehicle,  or 
on  horseback,  opposite  the  winning-post. 

A  race  ordinary,  which  was  furnished  with  venison  by 
some  patrons  of  the  Turf,  was  opened  on  the  first  and 
second  days  of  the  meeting,  when  a  considerable  quan- 
tity of  strong  beer,  sherry,  port,  and  punch  was  drunk. 
Matches  were  made  for  the  following  day,  stewards 
named  for  the  ensuing  year,  and  the  healths  of  the  retiring 
and  succeeding  stewards  drunk.  A  ball  was  given  at  the 
Chichester  Town  Hall  on  the  second  day,  into  which  rolled 
many  a  top-heavy  gentleman  from  the  ordinary.  There 
was  a  supper,  with  more  toasts  and  much  cheering,  and  no 
doubt  many  headaches  the  next  morning. 

What  would  a  jockey  of  the  present  day  say  to  such  a 
costume  as  this : — A  black  velvet  cap  with  a  long  French 
peak,  and  a  bow  of  black  riband  behind  ;  long  hair  falling 
to  his  shoulders  ;  a  white  cambric  neckcloth  of  ample  folds 
tied  at  the  back ;  a  long  body-coat  with  flaps,  wide  skirt, 
three  buttons  at  the  sides,  where  it  opened  as  well  in  front 
and  behind ;  knee-breeches  strapped  just  below  the  knee  ; 
white  cotton  stockings;  and  black  leather  Oxford  shoes 
with  long  tongues  and  silver  buckles.  Yet  such  was  the 
dress  worn  by  the  winners  of  the  first  Derbys.     The  incon- 


FIRST   DERBY   AND   GOODWOOD   209 

venience  of  riding  a  close  finish  in  these  tails  with  a  high 
wind  blowing  naturally  led  to  a  compromise ;  and  some 
early  jockey  hit  upon  a  happy  idea,  and  tucked  his  skirts 
inside  his  breeches.  The  next  step  was  to  curtail  these 
appendages ;  and  after  that  the  transition  was  easy  to  the 
racing  rig  with  which  we  are  now  familiar. 


14 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HEROES  OF  THE  LEASH 

Thirty  years  ago  I  accidentally  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  most  sensible  betting  man  I  have  ever  met,  the 
proprietor  of  an  hotel  in  Manchester.  Portraits  of  famous 
greyhounds  were  a  conspicuous  feature  both  of  the  coffee- 
room  and  the  parlour ;  whilst  in  the  garden  was  a  tomb- 
stone which  commemorated  the  exploits  of  the  famous 
bitch  Bab-at-the-Bowster,  who  lay  beneath.  My  host,  I 
found,  had  made  his  pile  by  two  lucky  coups.  He  backed 
Master  M'Grath  for  the  Waterloo  Cup  in  1868  and  1869, 
and  having  won  upwards  of  ;^io,ooo  sensibly  resolved  that 
he  would  bet  no  more,  and  invested  his  money  in  the 
prosperous  hotel  of  which  I  believe  he  is  still  proprietor. 
It  was  a  risky  thing  to  do  to  back  the  same  dog  two  years 
in  succession  for  the  Waterloo  Cup,  but  in  this  case  the 
bold  venture  was  justified  by  the  result. 

Coursing  is  a  sport  in  which  the  general  public  take  but 
a  faint  interest,  because  there  are  technicalities  about  it 
which  are  not  easily  understood  by  the  casual  spectator. 
To  a  certain  extent  it  is  as  unsatisfactory  to  the  uninitiated 
onlooker  as  yachting,  where  the  only  point  of  which  the 
spectator  can  be  certain  is  that  the  yacht  which  comes  in 
first  is  not  the  winner.  In  like  manner  the  greyhound 
which  kills  the  hare  is  not  necessarily  the  victor  in  the 
course — indeed,  in  many  cases  it  is  the  worse  dog  of  the 
two  that  kills.  It  is  needless  to  enter  into  details  of 
the  points  which  score  in  coursing.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
whilst  speed  holds  a  very  important  place,  cleverness  also 
counts  for  much ;  the  dog  which  makes  "  the  turn,"  or 
causes  the  hare  to  double,  counting  a  point  every  time  it 
does  so.     As  a  rule,  therefore,  the  fastest  dog  out  of  the 


HEROES   OF   THE    LEASH  211 

slips  scores  the  first  turn  in  addition  to  the  points  for  speed. 
My  object  here  is  simply  to  give  a  few  interesting  anecdotal 
data  of  the  sport. 

Of  its  antiquity  there  can  be  no  doubt,  though  when  and 
whence  greyhounds  were  introduced,  how  they  were  bred, 
or  what  the  origin  of  the  name  is,  are  questions  to  which 
no  satisfactory  answer  has  yet  been  given.  The  first 
association  of  coursers  of  which  there  is  any  record  was 
Swaffham  Club  in  Norfolk,  founded  by  Lord  Orford  in 
1776,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tragic  tale.  His  lordship  was 
the  owner  of  the  famous  bitch  Czarina,  the  progenitrix  ot 
all  the  great  greyhounds  since  her  time,  who  ran  47 
matches  and  was  never  once  beaten.  In  the  last  and  most 
exciting  of  her  matches  she  was  so  hard  pressed  that  when 
the  verdict  was  given  in  her  favour,  Lord  Orford,  who  had 
worked  himself  up  to  an  intense  pitch  of  excitement,  fell 
from  his  pony  in  a  fit  and  was  picked  up  dead. 

Czarina's  grandson,  Snowball,  was  the  "  Eclipse  "  of  the 
Leash.  Like  his  grand-dam,  he  was  never  beaten  ;  and  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  himself  an  enthusiastic  courser,  has  paid 
him  and  his  progeny  this  tribute  : — 

"  Who  knows  not  Snowball  ?     He  who's  race  renowned 
Is  still  victorious  on  each  coursing  ground. 
Swaffham,  Newmarket,  and  the  Roman  Camp 
Have  seen  them  victors  o'er  each  meaner  stamp." 

Major  Topham,  a  Yorkshire  sportsman,  owned  Snowball, 
and  after  winning  many  matches  with  him  issued  a 
challenge  to  the  world  for  any  sum  from  i^iooo  to  ;^5000 
a  side.  But  Snowball's  prowess  was  too  well  known,  and 
no  owner  of  greyhounds  cared  to  take  up  the  glove. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  I  have  said,  was  an  enthusiastic 
lover  of  coursing,  and  in  Lockhart's  Life  there  is  a  racy 
description  of  a  match  on  Newark  Hill,  in  which  the 
novelist,  with  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  Dr  Mackenzie,  and 
others  took  part.  "  Coursing  on  such  a  mountain  as 
Newark,"  writes  Lockhart,  "  is  not  like  the  same  sport  over 
a  set  of  firm  English  pastures.  There  were  gulfs  to  be 
avoided,  and  bogs  to  be  threaded ;  many  a  nag  stuck  fast ; 
and  another  stranger  to  the  ground  besides  Davy  plunged 
neck-deep   into   a   treacherous  well-head   which   bore  the 


212  SPORTING   STORIES 

appearance  of  a  piece  of  green  turf.  When  Sir  Humphrey 
emerged  from  his  involuntary  bath,  covered  with  mud, 
slime,  and  mangled  water-cresses,  Sir  Walter  received  him 
with  a  triumphant  encore!  But  the  philosopher  had  his 
revenge,  for  joining  soon  afterwards  in  a  brisk  gallop,  Scott 
put  Sibyl  Grey  at  a  leap  beyond  her  powers,  and  lay 
humbled  in  the  ditch,  while  Davy,  who  was  better  mounted, 
cleared  it  and  him  at  a  bound." 

Scott  himself  used  to  tell  the  following  story  : — "  There 
was  a  coursing  club  once  upon  a  time  at  Balchristy's  in 
the  Province,  or,  as  it  is  popularly  called,  the  Kingdom  of 
Fife.  The  members  were  elderly,  sociable  men,  to  whom 
a  very  moderate  allowance  of  sport  served  as  an  introduction 
to  a  hearty  dinner  and  a  jolly  evening.  Now  a  certain 
stout  hare  had  her  seat  on  the  ground  where  they  usually 
met,  who  usually  gave  the  amusement  of  three  or  four 
turns  when  she  was  put  up — a  sure  sign  of  a  strong  hare 
when  practised  by  any  beyond  the  age  of  a  leveret — then 
stretched  out  in  great  style,  and  after  affording  the 
gentlemen  an  easy  canter  of  a  mile  or  two,  threw  out  the 
dogs  by  passing  through  a  particular  gap  in  an  enclosure. 
This  sport  the  same  hare  gave  to  the  same  party  for  one  or 
two  seasons,  and  it  was  just  enough  to  afford  the  worthy 
members  of  the  club  a  sufficient  reason  to  be  alleged  to 
their  wives  or  others  whom  it  might  concern  for  passing 
the  day  in  the  public-house.  At  length,  a  fellow  who 
attended  the  hunt  nefariously  thrust  his  plaid  into  the  gap 
I  mentioned,  and  poor  puss,  her  retreat  being  thus  cut  off, 
was,  in  the  language  of  the  dying  Desdemona,  '  Basely, 
basely  murdered.' 

"  The  sport  of  the  Balchristy  Club  seemed  to  end  with 
this  famous  hare.  They  either  found  no  more  hares,  or 
such  as  only  afforded  a  hulloa  and  a  squeak,  or  gave  them 
longer  runs  than  they  had  any  pleasure  in  following.  The 
spirit  of  the  meeting  died  away,  and  it  was  at  length  given 
up  altogether.  The  publican  was,  of  course,  the  party  most 
affected  by  this,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  regarded  with 
no  complacency  the  person  who  had  prevented  the  hare 
from  escaping.  One  day  a  gentleman  asked  what  had 
become    of  the   obnoxious   individual.      '  He's   dead,   sir,' 


HEROES   OF   THE   LEASH  213 

answered  mine  host,  with  an  angry  scowl ;  '  and  his  soul 
kens  this  day  whether  the  hare  of  Balchristy  got  fair  play 
or  not.'" 

North  of  the  Tweed,  too,  the  late  Mr  Campbell,  an 
Ayrshire  laird,  famous  for  a  breed  of  greyhounds  by  his 
dog  Scotland  Yet,  was  as  great  an  enthusiast  as  Lord 
Orford.  He  had  a  mania  for  giving  his  dogs  out-of-the- 
way  names,  fearing  similar  ones  would  accidentally  be 
bestowed  on  inferior  animals  in  England.  This  feeling 
first  began  when  a  red  dog  of  Mr  Campbell's  named 
Cromwell,  the  winner  of  the  Biggar  (Open)  Cup  of  64 
dogs  in  1853,  afterwards  got  mixed  in  the  entries  with  an 
English  dog  of  the  same  name,  and  became  more  intensified 
on  his  finding  that  his  favourite  puppy,  Scotland  Yet,  was 
often  mistaken  for  Mr  Sharpe's  Scotland  Yet  that  ran  for 
the  Ridgway  Club  Cup.  After  that  he  would  have  no 
more  "  common  names  for  his  dowgs,"  hence  Coomerango, 
of  which  Boomerang  was  the  natural  sequence.  And  so 
he  continued  until  he  reached  Canaradzo,  Carabradzo,  and 
Cohooxardo,  which  he  considered  his  masterpieces  of  nomen- 
clature ;  and  he  used  to  declare  his  dogs  had  no  luck  unless 
he  named  them.  It  was,  however,  his  son — known  to  the 
coursing  world  as  "  Jock  o'  Dalgig  " — who  first  introduced 
the  sport  to  the  family  in  1841,  when  Mr  M'Turk  gave 
him  a  puppy.  But  the  Laird  o'  Dalgig  never  took  any 
notice  of  the  bitch  till  six  years  afterwards,  when  he  took  a 
violent  fancy  to  her,  and  so  learnt  to  love  coursing  as  no 
one  else  in  his  day  did.  His  maiden  win  was  a  farmers' 
stake  at  Closeburn — five  shillings  entrance,  and  thirty 
runners.  This  Dido  won,  and  repeated  her  victory  at  a 
Closeburn  public  meeting  next  year.  Of  all  the  greyhounds 
he  ever  bred,  Coodareena  was  his  favourite ;  yet,  much  as 
he  loved  her,  he  would  sometimes  make  her  run  trials  in 
one  day  against  the  whole  team,  being  "  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig  " 
to  all  his  son  Jock's  expostulations.  He  evidently  thought 
her  a  sort  of  steam-engine,  "  cast  at  Hawke's  and  fitted  at 
Stephenson's  " — as  the  Newcastle  "  hinnies  "  used  to  say  of 
the  great  oarsman  Bob  Chambers — or  he  would  never  have 
tried  her  so  hard. 

The  Laird  of  Dalgig  was  famed  through  Nithsdale  and 


214  SPORTING    STORIES 

the  Borders  as  much  for  his  hospitality  as  for  his  love  of 
sport,  and  consequently  every  Edie  Ochiltree  and  Madge 
Wildfire  who  wandered  among  those  moors  knew  where  a 
night's  lodgings  and  plenty  of  porridge  and  milk  could  be 
had.  It  was  well  known  that  he  asked  every  tramp  his 
name,  and  all  invariably  answered  "  Campbell " ;  and 
although  the  clan  of  Argyle  must  have  seemed  to  him  to 
be  ever  increasing  in  numbers,  he  put  no  more  questions. 
"  Campbell "  was  the  key  to  his  heart,  and  they  repaid 
his  kindness  by  never  stealing  from  him.  One  of  the 
oldest  and  worst  "Johnnie  Fa'as"  either  in  Nithsdale  or 
Teviotdale  was  heard  to  say  to  his  little  son  behind  a 
hedge,  "  Nab  (steal)  a'  ye  can,  laddie,  but  no'  at  Dalgig 
for  yer  life." 

Once,  two  couples  who  had  enjoyed  the  Laird's  hospitality 
from  Saturday  till  Monday  occupied  their  leisure  in  the 
barn  by  effecting  an  exchange  of  wives — a  proceeding  bad 
enough  in  the  Laird's  eyes  at  any  time,  but  when  introduced 
as  a  Sabbath  ceremony  an  unpardonable  offence.  In  fact, 
Dalgig  was  so  incensed  that  for  a  long  time  he  refused  to 
harbour  any  beggars  except  those  belonging  to  that  part  of 
the  country. 

Previous  to  taking  to  coursing,  curling  and  draughts  had 
been  his  chief  amusements,  and  he  kept  up  the  ice  game  for 
fully  fifty  years,  driving  to  Sanquhar  (17  miles)  to  enjoy 
the  pastime ;  and  although  he  never  won  "  the  picture,"  he 
held  the  New  Cumnock  Challenge  Medal  for  years. 

A  lady,  too,  who  deserves  to  be  immortalised  in  the 
annals  of  the  leash,  was  Miss  Richards,  of  Compton 
Beauchamp,  Berkshire.  She  possessed  considerable 
personal  charms  and  a  large  property,  but  so  strong- 
minded  was  she  that  she  choked  off  all  intending  suitors 
with  the  curt  announcement  that  she  meant  to  live  and  die 
a  maid.  Her  enthusiasm  for  coursing  was  extraordinary. 
Every  day  during  the  coursing  season  this  indefatigable 
sportswoman  was  driven  in  her  coach  to  the  downs,  where, 
springing  out  on  her  native  turf,  she  coursed  on  foot  for 
the  rest  of  the  morning,  sometimes  walking  a  distance  of 
25  miles  ere,  to  use  the  words  of  an  irreverent  scribe,  "she 
re-embarked   on    board  of  the   tub   of  state   steered    by 


HEROES   OF  THE   LEASH         215 

an  old  body-coachman,  aided  by  assistant  snobbers  in  full 
costume." 

Miss  Richards's  only  rival  sportswoman,  Miss  Diana 
Draper,  the  daughter  of  Squire  Draper  of  Berwick  Hall,  in 
the  East  Riding,  acted  as  whipper-in  to  her  father,  and 
cheered  on  the  hounds  as  lustily  as  any  male  whip.  Like 
Miss  Richards,  she  lived  and  died  in  single  blessedness, 
having  a  healthy  scorn  for  the  tender  passion.  Few  cared 
to  follow  her  across  country,  for  she  was  a  straight  and  fear- 
less rider,  and  it  was  a  marvel  that  she  should  have  escaped 
the  dangers  of  the  hunting-field  and  died  with  whole 
bones  in  her  bed. 

Coursing,  as  I  have  said,  is  a  sport  of  great  antiquity. 
Xenophon  loved  it,  and  Arrian,  five  centuries  later,  wrote  a 
"  Badminton "  masterpiece  on  greyhounds.  King  John 
patronised  it,  and  was  always  ready  to  take  greyhounds  in 
lieu  of  money  for  the  renewal  of  royal  grants,  fines,  and 
forfeitures.  Edward  III.  coursed  both  hares  and  deer, 
and  kept  a  big  kennel  of  greyhounds  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk,  in  Elizabeth's  reign,  organised  the 
sport,  and  drew  up  a  code  of  laws  to  regulate  it,  to  which 
all  the  coursers  of  the  kingdom  gave  their  assent. 

But  it  was  not  till  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century 
that  coursing  became  really  popular  in  England,  and  that 
clubs  for  its  encouragement  were  formed  all  over  the 
country.  The  first  of  these  was  founded,  as  I  have  already 
mentioned,  at  Swaffham  by  the  Earl  of  Orford  in  1776. 

The  number  of  members  was  confined  to  twenty-six,  the 
number  of  letters  in  the  alphabet.  Each  member's  grey- 
hounds were  named,  the  name  beginning  with  the  initial 
letter  that  he  bore  in  the  club.  When  a  member  died,  or 
wished  to  retire,  his  place  was  filled  by  ballot.  The 
Marchioness  of  Townsend  was  the  lady  patroness,  and  the 
Countess  Cholmondeley  and  Mrs  Coke  of  Holkham  vice- 
patronesses.  The  Earl  of  Monteath  was  the  honorary 
president,  and  was  entitled  to  use  any  letter  that  he  liked. 

As  time  went  on,  other  clubs  were  formed.  That  at 
Ashdown  was  instituted  in  181 1,  and  the  Countess  of  Sefton 
was  amongst  the  patronesses.  Clubs  were  formed  at  Altcar, 
East  Ilsley,  Newbury,  and  Louth.     The  former  very  soon 


216  SPORTING   STORIES 

became  the  prominent  body,  and  the  Altcar  Cuj)  was  early 
in  the  nineteenth  century  a  much-coveted  trophy.  This 
event  was  generally  the  principal  one  of  the  season  all 
through  the  thirties. 

In  1836  the  Waterloo  Cup,  which  has  now  grown  into  the 
blue  riband  of  the  Leash,  was  instituted.  It  was  of  very 
humble  origin,  for  there  were  at  the  start  only  eight  nomi- 
nators, at  £2  each,  with  a  trophy  added  in  the  shape  of  a 
snuff-box.  It  was  won  by  a  greyhound  called  Melanie, 
nominated  by  Mr  Lynn,  but  really  the  property  of  Lord 
Molyneux,  at  that  time  a  great  supporter  of  coursing,  and 
grandfather  of  the  present  Lord  Sefton. 

Next  year  the  Waterloo  Cup  was  made  a  sixteen-dog 
stake,  at  £^  each  ;  and  there  was  a  smaller  event  called 
the  Altcar  Plate,  which  occupied  the  position  of  the  present 
Waterloo  Plate,  for  greyhounds  that  were  beaten  in  the 
first  round.  Next  season,  that  is,  in  1838,  the  Waterloo 
Cup  was  a  great  advance,  as  it  was  for  thirty-two  grey- 
hounds, at  £2^  each.  The  Cup  was  won  by  Mr  Ball's 
Bugle,  whilst  the  Altcar  Stakes  fell  to  Lord  Stradbroke's 
Madman.  In  1839  there  was  another  change,  and  the 
Altcar  Stakes  was  then  called  the  Waterloo  Purse  for  the 
first  time.  Curiously  enough,  it  fell  to  Lord  Stradbroke 
for  the  second  year  in  succession,  his  Little  Minx  winning. 
Mr  Easterby  was  the  first  owner  to  have  the  best  two  dogs 
in  the  stake ;  in  1840  his  dogs  Earwig  and  Emperor  ran 
off,  the  former  winning. 

Certio  was  the  first  greyhound  that  won  the  Waterloo 
Cup  more  than  once.  This  dog  won  first  in  1850  as  a 
puppy,  and  then,  after  missing  a  year,  won  again  in  '52  and 
'53.  This  performance,  however,  was  nothing  to  what 
Master  M'Grath  and  Fullerton  accomplished  later.  In 
1857  a  great  change  was  made  in  the  stake,  for  the  nomina- 
tions were  then  increased  to  sixty-four  dogs,  and  the 
conditions  became  somewhat  the  same  as  at  the  present 
time.  They  now  read  as  follows : — "  The  Waterloo  Cup, 
for  64  subscribers,  at  £2^  each;  winner  i^500,  second  £200^ 
two  dogs  ;^50  each,  four  dogs  £10  each,  eight  dogs  ;^20 
each,  sixteen  dogs  £\o  each."  So  that  every  one  of  the 
thirty-two  dogs  engaged  in  the  second  round  of  the  Cup 


HEROES   OF   THE   LEASH  217 

receives  a  prize.  Then  there  are  the  Waterloo  Purse  and 
the  Waterloo  Plate,  which  between  them  supply  £^6o  in 
consolation  prizes,  bringing  up  the  total  to  £1600. 

Among  the  great  greyhounds  that  have  figured  in  the 
competitions  for  the  Waterloo  Cup  since  its  institution, 
four  stand  out  pre-eminently — Master  M'Grath,  Bab-at- 
the-Bowster,  Coomassie,  and  Fullerton.  Master  M'Grath 
came  out  as  a  puppy  in  1868,  and  at  his  first  attempt 
carried  off  the  Cup.  In  the  following  year  he  repeated  his 
triumph — a  feat  up  to  that  time  unprecedented  in  the 
annals  of  Altcar.  The  final  course  for  that  year's  Cup, 
when  Master  M'Grath  met  Bab-at-the-Bowster,  will  never 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed  it.  In  common  with 
many  others,  I  believe  that  on  that  day  at  any  rate  the 
bitch  was  the  better  of  the  two,  and  it  was  by  sheer  bad 
luck  that  she  failed  to  win  the  deciding  course.  The 
following  year  was  productive  of  a  sensation.  Master 
M'Grath  was  beaten  by  Lady  Lyons,  and,  unable  to  stop 
himself  at  the  edge  of  the  river  Alt,  ran  on  to  the  rotten  ice 
(there  had  been  a  hard  frost  the  previous  week),  which 
gave  way  under  his  weight,  and  the  dog,  utterly  exhausted 
as  he  was,  would  undoubtedly  have  been  drowned  but  for 
the  pluck  of  the  slipper  who  went  in  and  rescued  him. 
Lord  Lurgan  was  in  a  towering  rage  at  the  defeat  of  his 
famous  greyhound,  which  he  attributed  to  the  stupidity  or 
favouritism  of  the  judge,  and  swore  that  Master  M'Grath 
should  never  run  again. 

But,  fortunately,  Lord  Lurgan  repented  of  his  hasty 
decision,  and  in  1870  Master  M'Grath  immortalised  him- 
self by  winning  the  Waterloo  Cup  in  brilliant  style  for  the 
third  time.  The  enthusiasm  over  that  victory  was  extra- 
ordinary. Master  M'Grath  was  the  hero  of  the  hour. 
The  Queen  herself  commanded  his  appearance  at  Windsor, 
and  it  was  a  proud  moment  for  Lord  Lurgan  when  he 
presented  his  famous  greyhound  to  Her  Majesty,  and 
received  her  gracious  expression  of  admiration  and  con- 
gratulation. Master  M'Grath  never  ran  again  in  public, 
and  did  not  long  survive  his  triple  triumph,  for  two  years 
later  he  died  of  heart  disease. 

Bab-at-the-Bowster,  though  she  never  won  a  Waterloo 


218  SPORTING    STORIES 

Cup,  is  still  considered  by  some  good  judges  to  have  been 
a  better  greyhound  than  Master  M'Grath.  Her  record  is 
certainly  a  grand  one,  for  she  only  lost  5  out  of  6^  courses 
she  ran,  and  won  £\^\o  in  stakes.  Master  M'Grath  won 
36  out  of  the  37  courses  he  ran,  and  i^i/SO  in  stakes. 
This  makes  his  record  better  than  Bab's ;  but  he  was  only 
drawn  against  her  once,  and  then  she  undoubtedly  proved 
herself  the  better  greyhound,  though  she  had  the  ill-luck 
to  lose. 

Coomassie's  triumph  in  1877  ^'^d  i^lZ  forms  the  next 
great  sensation  in  the  history  of  the  Waterloo  Cup.  She 
was  the  smallest  greyhound  that  ever  won  that  trophy,  and 
weighed  only  42  lbs. — 12  lbs.  less  than  Master  M'Grath. 
She  was  purchased,  after  she  had  won  the  All- Aged  Stakes 
at  Newmarket,  by  Mr  T.  Lay,  for  ;^25o,  from  Mr  R.  Gittens, 
of  Buckenden,  Norfolk. 

Her  first  Waterloo  Cup  was  the  only  one  at  which  Sir 
John  Astley  was  ever  present.  He  had  a  i^iooo  to  £y:yo 
on  the  nomination,  and  afterwards  presented  Mr  Gittens 
with  a  gold  watch.  The  following  year  Coomassie  won 
again.  It  is  possible  that  she  might  have  placed  a  third 
consecutive  Waterloo  Cup  to  her  credit  in  1879,  ^""^  ^hus 
have  beaten  Master  M'Grath's  record,  but  for  an  unfortunate 
accident  in  training  for  the  event.  She  fractured  a  small 
bone  in  one  of  her  forelegs,  and  was  never  able  to  run  again. 

Then  came  the  memorable  Fullerton  era,  when  Colonel 
North's  splendid  greyhound  eclipsed  all  previous  records 
and  made  himself  an  everlasting  name.  Fullerton  came 
out  in  1889,  and  in  the  deciding  course  for  the  Waterloo 
Cup  was  left  in  with  his  kennel  companion  Troughend ;  as 
both  dogs  belonged  to  Colonel  North,  though  Troughend 
was  nominated  by  Mr  Badger,  he  elected  to  let  them 
divide  the  stakes,  albeit  Fullerton  could,  bar  accidents, 
have  beaten  the  other  easily.  In  the  three  following  years, 
1890,  1 89 1,  1892,  Fullerton  carried  all  before  him,  and 
threw  into  the  shade  even  the  triumphs  of  Master  M'Grath 
by  winning  the  Cup  outright  in  three  consecutive  years, 
besides  dividing  for  it  in  the  fourth  year.  Not  even  the 
deciding  course  between  Master  M'Grath  and  Bab-at-the- 
Bowster  was  as  sensational  as  the  final  between  Fullerton 


HEROES    OF   THE    LEASH  219 

and  Fitz-Fife  in  1892.  They  ran  a  dead-heat  in  the  first 
course ;  and  in  the  decider  almost  to  the  last  it  looked  as 
if  the  younger  dog  would  win  ;  but  the  elder  pulled  himself 
together  at  the  finish  and  won  brilliantly,  amid  a  scene  of 
tremendous  excitement.  How  Fullerton  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared, how  Colonel  North  offered  a  reward  of  ^1000 
for  his  recovery,  and  how  finally  the  priceless  greyhound 
was  found  wandering  about  the  country  half-starved,  are 
romantic  incidents  in  Fullerton's  career  which  must  still 
be  comparatively  fresh  in  public  memory. 

Patrons  of  the  Leash  have  claimed  for  their  favourite 
sport  the  distinction  of  being  the  fairest  in  the  world,  and 
there  would  seem  to  be  no  reason  why  coursing  matches 
should  not  be  absolutely  free  from  foul  play.  But  they 
have  not  always  been  above  suspicion.  Stewards  have 
been  known  to  shift  the  beating  on  to  ploughed  land  when 
a  dangerous  stranger  had  to  be  knocked  out  of  time. 
Partisans  have  artfully  managed  to  "steady"  the  hare  by 
getting  between  her  and  a  plantation,  so  as  to  make  the 
course  a  long  one.  Ground  where  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  kill  a  hare  has  been  selected  before  now  to  run  a  bye 
on  ;  and  once  the  beaters  were  actually  sent  back  a  mile  in 
order  that  "a  very  dangerous  stranger"  might  run  over 
flints.  Like  other  sports,  coursing,  therefore,  cannot  show 
a  clean  sheet,  though  most  of  the  roguery  perpetrated  has 
been  done  more  for  fame  than  with  any  view  to  make 
money.  It  was  to  keep  the  trophy  in  the  shire  or  county 
where  it  was  run  for  that  local  patriotism  condescended  to 
methods  unsportsmanlike  and  dishonest. 

An  old  devotee  of  the  Leash  used  to  tell  with  much 
gusto  how  he  had  managed  years  before  to  trick  the  judge. 
His  dog  had  run  into  the  final  for  a  big  stake,  and  was 
then  matched  against  a  dog  of  great  local  renown,  which 
he  felt,  but  for  some  merciful  interposition  of  Providence, 
would  be  sure  to  win.  Not  liking  the  thought  of  being 
vanquished,  he  said  to  his  trainer : — 

"  Now  Joe,  I  have  been  this  year  at  great  expense,  yet 
we  have  won  nothing  all  the  season,  and  jou  and  I  part 
unless  our  dog  wins  this  match.  I  don't  want  you  to 
injure  the  other  dog,  but  we  must  win.     Can't  you  manage 


220  SPORTING    STORIES 

it?  The  judge  is  old,  and  as  deaf  as  a  post,  and  will 
certainly  not  dream  of  jumping  anything,  but  will  go  a 
long  way  round.  The  hare  is  sure  to  make  for  yonder 
coppice  ;  you  go  off  there,  and,  mind  you,  we  must  win!^ 

A  nod  is  as  good  as  a  wink  to  a  blind  horse.  So  the 
trainer,  disguised  as  a  chaw-bacon,  took  his  post  at  the  spot 
indicated  by  his  master.  As  they  expected,  the  hare  and 
dogs  came  rushing  to  the  covert,  and  some  time  afterwards 
the  judge  came  toiling  up.  To  his  question,  "  Did  you  see 
the  dogs?  "  the  disguised  trainer  replied,  "  Ees,  that  I  did  ; 
and  gin  the  black  'un  were  mine,  I'd  hang  'un,  for  he's 
good  for  nawt."  The  judge  went  back  at  once,  and  called 
out  "  Red  !  "  to  the  great  glee  of  the  trainer  and  his  master. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  COCKPIT 

If  the  much-talked-of  "Open  Door"  to  British  trade 
becomes  an  accomplished  fact  in  the  Philippines  under 
their  new  American  masters  it  is  just  possible  that  the 
British  poultry-breeder  may  find  a  market  for  at  least  one 
class  of  fowl. 

The  favourite  pastime  of  the  Filippinos  is  cock-fighting, 
and  to  the  Filippino  his  favourite  fighting  cock  is  what 
his  pet  bull-pup  is  to  the  northern  pitman.  Its  proud 
master  takes  it  under  his  arm  to  church  on  Sundays 
and  festivals,  and  its  ailments  are  attended  to  by  medical 
specialists. 

Now,  surely,  our  poultry-breeders  might  make  a  pretty 
penny  by  exporting  the  grand  old  British  breeds  of  game- 
cock to  the  Philippines. 

Cock-fighting  is  now  a  discredited  and  illegal  sport  in 
England,  and  I  suppose  that  our  advanced  civilisation  is 
right  enough  in  demanding  its  suppression.  But  not  so 
very  long  ago,  "cocking"  held  a  high  place  amongst 
aristocratic  sports,  I  remember  well  the  eloquent  letter  in 
defence  of  cock-fighting  which  the  late  Admiral  Rous 
addressed  to  the  Times  in  the  early  seventies,  in  which  he 
contended  that  there  was  nothing  cruel  or  degrading  about 
cock-fighting.  Cocks,  he  urged,  naturally  love  fighting, 
they  revel  in  it ;  where,  then,  is  the  brutality — the  cruelty — 
of  encouraging  them  to  carry  out  their  natural  bent  scien- 
tifically? But,  whatever  we  may  think  of  the  Admiral's 
arguments,  the  fact  remains  that  many  high-minded  and 
genuine  sportsmen,  like  himself,  were  passionate  votaries  of 
the  sport,  and  a  few  anecdotes  of  some  of  them  may  not  be 


222  SPORTING   STORIES 

out  of  place,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  Cousin  Jonathan  will 
have  to  take  cock-fighting  into  serious  consideration  now 
that  he  has  elected  to  annex  the  Philippines. 

During  the  closing  ten  or  fifteen  years  of  the  eighteenth 
century  and  the  first  thirty  of  the  nineteenth  there  was  no 
greater  authority  on  the  sport  of  cocking  than  the  cele- 
brated Doctor  Bellyse  of  Audlem,  a  Cheshire  village 
between  Nantwich  and  Stoke.  A  remarkable  man  was 
this  worthy  doctor ;  eminent  in  his  own  profession,  he  was 
a  walking  polyglot  on  racing  pedigrees  from  the  Godol- 
phin  Arabian  to  Memnon,  and  no  keener  critic  of  coursing 
ever  rode  behind  the  slipper  at  Altcar  or  Amesbury.  But 
it  was  as  a  cocker  that  he  was  especially  famous.  In  that 
respect  he  was  like  his  neighbour  and  rival,  the  twelfth  Earl 
of  Derby,  who,  if  possible,  loved  a  gamecock  even  better 
than  a  racehorse,  and  was  justly  termed  "the  greatest 
cocker  that  ever  lived." 

But  to  return  to  our  Doctor.  His  professional  duties 
forbade  his  going  far  afield  in  search  of  sport,  and,  keen  as 
he  was  upon  horse-racing,  he  never  in  his  life  saw  either  a 
Derby  or  St  Leger  run.  But  nothing  could  have  induced 
him  to  forego  his  annual  week  on  the  Roodee.  On  the 
Saturday  previous  to  the  races,  his  yellow  gig  with  his 
fourteen-one  Brown  Tommy  turned  up  as  regularly  as  the 
seasons  themselves  at  the  Hop  Pole  Inn  ;  and  on  the 
Monday  he  sallied  forth  to  the  hotel-row,  and  received  a 
hearty  welcome  from  all  the  lovers  of  "  the  Turf  and  the 
Sod."  Every  one  knew  the  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
the  light-coloured  kerseys  and  gaiters,  the  buff  waistcoat, 
the  golden  greyhound  (gift  of  his  friend,  Lord  Combermore), 
which  lent  a  tasteful  finish  to  his  snowy  frill,  and  the  pig- 
tail just  peeping  from  beneath  a  conical,  low-crowned  hat 
which  completed  the  attire  from  which  he  never  varied. 
The  cockpit  began  at  eleven,  and  the  "go-in"  ended  soon 
after  one.  Then,  before  a  grand  stand  was  known,  the 
Doctor  was  always  to  be  seen  on  Tommy,  armed  with  a 
gigantic  umbrella,  in  the  middle  of  the  Roodee,  to  watch 
what  the  horses  were  doing  all  round.  He  held  a  belief 
that  there  were  "  always  so  many  fools  on  racecourses," 
and   hence   he   kept   this   huge    "  gamp,"   to   shoot   it    in 


THE    COCKPIT  223 

self-defence  across  the  faces  of  the  young  blades  as 
they  galloped  recklessly  across  him,  from  the  cords  to 
the  river-rails. 

After  dinner  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  there  was  a  long 
audience  with  Joe  Gilliver,  his  feeder,  to  sound  him  as  to 
the  condition  of  his  cocks,  and  to  learn  his  opinion  of  the 
coming  main.  This  worthy  was  also  a  remarkable  person- 
age, and  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  celebrated  cock- 
feeders  England  ever  produced.  But  he  had  one  rival  in 
his  own  day,  who  was  not  far  behind  him — one  Potter,  who 
fed  for  Lord  Derby.  It  was  Joe's  boast  that  he  had  fought 
for  the  largest  sums  of  money  ever  staked  on  a  main — 
namely,  a  thousand  guineas  a  battle  and  five  thousand  on 
the  main.  This  was  fought  at  Lincoln,  and  won  by 
Gilliver,  who  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  five  out  of  the 
seven  battles.  "Setting"  was  quite  a  distinct  profession 
from  feeding,  and  from  fifteen  to  thirty  guineas  was  the 
regular  fee  for  a  great  main.  Gilliver  tried  both  depart- 
ments; but  it  was  said  that  he  held  cocks  clumsily  in 
his  great  hands,  and  that  Owen  Probyn  of  Birmingham 
was  in  this  respect  greatly  superior.  The  latter  v.'as  de- 
scribed as  an  "  asthmatic,  death-like  man,  with  a  long 
thumb  and  nail  which  he  could  use  so  deftly  that  he  was 
esteemed  three  battles  in  the  main  better  than  any  of  his 
compeers." 

Well,  Joe  Gilliver  was  for  a  time  feeder  to  the  Doctor  as 
well  as  to  Mr  Legh  of  Lyme,  who  was  as  famous  for  his 
breed  of  cocks  as  for  his  breed  of  mastiffs.  And  long  and 
earnest  were  his  confabs  with  the  Doctor,  who  would  slip 
away  from  the  sporting  company  to  watch  his  brown-red 
champions  busy  in  their  pen,  scratching  at  a  fresh-cut  sod 
or  a  spadeful  of  gravel  from  the  bottom  of  the  Dee.  In 
some  ssasons  he  would  send  out  a  thousand  chickens  to 
the  walks  which  were  placed  at  his  service  on  the 
Combermere,  Stanington,  Adderley,  Toddington,  Peckfor- 
ton,  Beeston,  Oulton,  and  other  estates  in  Cheshire, 
Shropshire,  and  Wales.  He  had  always,  therefore,  an 
immense  stock  of  birds  to  choose  from,  and  he  would  have 
a  hundred  cocks  taken  up  from  their  walks  for  Chester,  in 
order  that  his  feeder  might  select  the  best  and  put  them  in 


224  SPORTING    STORIES 

training  from  the  Thursday  week  till  the  Monday,  when 
the  smaller  birds  led  off  in  the  five  days'  main.  Two  years 
old  was  the  favourite  age,  as  they  became  "greasy"  at 
three,  and  far  beyond  the  4  lbs.  10  oz.  standard.  Eggs, 
sugar-candy  water,  hot  bread  and  milk,  barley,  rue, 
butter,  and  rhubarb  formed  the  chief  part  of  that  dainty 
diet  which  few  were  fated  to  taste  more  than  once  in 
their  lives. 

The  Doctor's  passion  for  the  sport  dated  back  to  the 
days  of  his  youth — before  he  was  well  out  of  his  teens,  in 
fact — and  he  inaugurated  his  career  with  the  original 
"white  piles"  which  carried  such  a  wonderful  spur  that 
the  Cheshire  Drop,  which  would  occasionally  appear  in 
a  long  battle,  was  considered  as  fatal  as  the  Chiffney 
Rush  on  the  Turf.  These  were  the  cocks  with  which  the 
Cholmondeleys,  the  Egertons,  the  Warburtons,  the  Cottons 
and  the  Roylances  fought  all  the  great  country  mains, 
sometimes  against  each  other,  but  more  frequently  against 
the  Mexborough  and  Meynell  families.  The  Doctor, 
however,  convinced  himself  that  their  constitutions  would 
not  stand  the  discipline  of  modern  feeders,  and  at  last,  by 
judicious  crossing,  made  his  brown  and  black-reds  carry 
as  good  a  spur  and  bear  the  most  punishing  preparations 
to  boot.  These  cocks  were  mostly  bred  from  the  Doctor's 
old  "cut-combed"  hen,  whose  descendants  were  crossed  with 
his  brown  Crowally,  two  of  Gilliver's  black-reds,  and  the 
Westgarth  cock.  Six  pullets  to  one  cock,  and  the  eggs 
as  closely  bred  in  as  he  could  get  them,  were  two  of  his 
leading  tenets.  He  used  the  same  stud  birds  for  three 
seasons. 

Chester  and  Preston  were  the  two  great  centres  of  cock- 
fighting  in  the  North.  Lord  Sefton,  Mr  Price  of  Brynprys, 
Captain  White,  Mr  Bold  Haughton,  and  Doctor  Bellyse 
all  fought  at  Chester.  Lord  Derby  and  Mr  Legh  of  Lyme 
reserved  their  cocks  for  Preston.  His  lordship  had  built 
there  at  his  own  expense  the  best-appointed  cockpit  in 
the  kingdom,  which  has— such  is  the  irony  of  fate — been 
converted  into  a  temperance  hall.  Five  shillings  was  the 
price  of  admission  to  the  pit  when  the  Derby  mains  were 
being   fought,   and   the   "  main    bag,"  generally  a    canvas 


THE   COCKPIT  225 

affair,  was  on  those  occasions  needlework,  having  the 
arms  of  the  Derby  family  wrought  in  gold.  Ten 
guineas  a  battle  and  two  hundred  the  main  were  the 
usual  stakes  ;  but  they  were  doubled  when  Lord  Derby 
and  Mr  Bold  Haughton  or  Mr  Legh  fought  their  great 
contests. 

It  was  generally  one  of  the  articles  that  cocks  were 
to  fight  in  "  fair  reputed  silver  spurs " ;  but  these  were 
little  more  than  steel  thinly  washed  over,  and  a  crash- 
ing stroke  through  the  skull  from  one  of  them  admin- 
istered the  death-blow  as  instantaneously  as  a  pistol 
bullet. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Doctor  Bellyse  that  he  did  not  live  to 
see  the  sport  he  loved  so  well  put  an  end  to  by  Act  of 
Parliament,  and  branded  as  brutal,  degrading,  and  barbarous. 
He  was  spared  this  indignity,  for  he  died  suddenly  in 
January  1829,  when  he  was  but  one  day  short  of  70. 
Five  years  later  Lord  Derby  died  at  Knowsley,  at  the  age 
of  82  ;  while  in  the  previous  year  (1833)  Joe  GilHver  died 
at  his  native  village,  Polesworth,  Warwickshire,  aged  74. 
The  same  year  saw  the  end  of  Potter,  Gilliver's  rival,  and 
thus  died  the  greatest  group  of  cockers  that  England  has 
ever  seen. 

Two  descriptions  of  scenes  in  the  famous  old  Westminster 
Pit  in  Tufton  Street  may  not  be  amiss : — 

"  It  was  a  great  day,  '  a  Derby  Day,'  in  cocking,  since 
a  main  was  to  be  fought  between  Lord  Derby's  highly 
bred,  black-breasted  reds  and  Mr  Whitaker's  new  strain 
of  duckwings.  There  were  enormous  bets  on  both  sides ; 
it  was  quite  a  select  meeting,  and  everyone  was  there  by 
invitation.  The  best  places  were  already  occupied  by 
early  comers  when  we  entered ;  there  were  Sir  William 
Wynn,  Ralph  Benyon,  Sir  Bellingham  Graham,  Doctor 
Bellyse,  Colonel  Mellish,  Dick  Thornton,  and  several  dukes 
and  lords  of  Turf  celebrity.  In  modest  retirement  in  the 
background  were  the  solid  faces  of  Jem  Belcher,  Tom 
Cribb,  Molyneux,  Bill  Richmond,  Tom  Oliver  (the  Com- 
missary of  the  Prize  Ring),  Gentleman  Jackson,  and  other 
'  pugs,'  whose  bravery  and  honesty  earned  them  the  patron- 
age of  the  Corinthians. 

15 


226  SPORTING   STORIES 

"  Presently  a  bustle  outside  gave  notice  that  someone 
particular  had  arrived,  and  in  came  Tommy  Hughes, 
the  gentlest  of  roughs,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  '  drum,' 
bowing  and  scraping,  and  ushering  in  the  '  First  Gentle- 
man in  Europe,'  accompanied  by  his  brother,  the  Duke  of 
York,  and  supported  by  his  friends,  foremost  amongst 
whom  was  Beau  Brummel,  then  in  the  zenith  of  his 
power. 

"  And  now  the  sport  began.  '  The  backers,'  the  seconds, 
the  umpires,  and  referee  took  their  places,  and  the  first 
two  feathered  heroes  were  tenderly  delivered  at  the  scratch. 
It  was  a  strange  scene;  the  place,  with  its  vaulted  roof  and 
stone  pillars,  was  but  dimly  lit  by  the  flickering  candles, 
and  these  were  chiefly  focussed  upon  the  stage,  and  the 
crowd  in  the  background  was  shadowy  and  indistinct. 
The  babel  of  tongues  soon  became  uproarious  ;  bets  were 
shouted  from  each  side  of  the  pit ;  the  Prince,  who  had 
thrown  off  all  restraint  on  entering  and  had  been  shaking 
hands  and  betting  with  everyone,  entered  into  the  fun 
with  an  energy  second  to  none.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  recount  the  individual  battles  of  this  mighty  main,  or 
to  describe  how  a  gallant  Redbreast  with  a  broken  thigh 
made  his  dying  effort,  and  with  a  fortunate  flutter  slew 
his  unscathed  antagonist ;  or  how  another,  blinded  in  the 
fight,  with  peculiar  instinct,  knocked  over  his  unsuspecting 
foe.  But  in  the  end  the  Duckwings  won,  and  the  Derbyites 
were  badly  beaten,  and  the  Prince  who  had  backed  the 
latter  lost  a  large  sum.  After  which  the  company  turned 
out  and  had  to  push  their  way  through  the  crowd  of 
tatterdemalions  that  filled  the  streets." 

But  the  most  graphic  account  of  a  well-fought  main  is 
from  the  pen  of  a  journalist  who  in  1826,  in  company  with 
Tom  Owen,  a  famous  pugilist  and  the  inventor  of  the  dumb- 
bells, paid  his  first  visit  to  the  Westminster  cockpit.  After 
describing  the  interior  of  the  building  ("  round,  with  seats 
rising  row  above  row  like  an  amphitheatre,  with  a  stage  of 
about  18  ft.  or  20  ft.  in  diameter  in  the  centre,  covered  by 
a  mat  on  which  an  inner  and  an  outer  circle  where  chalked  ; 
and  illumined  by  a  ring  of  tallow  candles  that  hung  from 
the  ceiling "),  he  proceeds  to  sketch  the  most  conspicuous 


Q.   :3 

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THE    COCKPIT  227 

members  of  the  company  there  assembled :  "  the  country 
clergyman,  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat  and  white  cravat, 
the  grave,  respectable  tradesman,  who  never  patronises 
any  other  form  of  amusement ;  the  dandy,  dressed  in  the 
height  of  the  fashion,  fraternising  with  Bill  Smith  of '  The 
Dials ' ;  old  men  that  looked  as  if  they  had  gone  without 
food  to  scrape  together  a  few  shillings  to  back  the  main." 
After  having  hit  off  the  audience,  he  goes  on  to  describe 
the  dramatis  persona;  of  the  bloody  drama  that  is  about  to 
be  enacted. 

"  First  in  order  is  old  Nash,  the  feeder.  His  colourless 
eye  twinkled  a  cold  satisfaction  when  a  bird  did  good  work 
on  the  mat ;  and  sometimes,  though  seldom,  he  was 
elevated  into  the  proffer  of  a  moderate  bet;  but  generally 
he  leaned  over  the  rails  of  a  small  gallery,  and  watched  the 
progress  of  the  battle.  He  had  been  cooped  up  so  long 
with  the  birds,  that  his  beaked  nose,  his  red  forehead  and 
gills,  round  body,  and  thin  legs,  and  silver-grey  feathery 
hair  lying  like  plumage  over  his  head,  gave  him  a  cocklike 
appearance.  Amidst  a  babel  of  shouting,  the  setters-to, 
Fleming  and  Nash  junior,  issued  from  opposite  entrances, 
each  carrying  a  white  bag ;  from  the  recesses  of  which 
issued  stifled  cries  of  defiance. 

"  Fleming  first  lifted  his  bird  out  of  the  bag,  yellow- 
bodied  and  black-winged.  He  was  restless  at  the  sight 
of  his  antagonist,  but  quite  silent ;  and  old  Nash  compared 
him  most  carefully  with  the  description  handed  in  with 
him,  delivering  him  up  to  Fleming  on  finding  that  he 
perfectly  answered  to  it.  The  setters-to  then  smoothed 
their  birds,  moistened  their  bandaged  legs  where  the 
silver  spurs,  an  inch  and  a  half  in  length,  were  fastened ; 
held  them  up  opposite  each  other,  and  thus  aroused 
their  courage  and  prepared  them  for  the  combat.  The 
opponent  bird  was  a  splendid  red  and  black,  whose  feathers 
positively  glittered  ;  his  black  eyes  took  in  all  around 
him,  and  shone  so  brilliantly  that  they  looked  like  jewels. 
His  comb  was  cut  close,  his  neck  trimmed,  his  wings 
partially  clipped,  the  back  feathers,  however,  being  left 
untouched,  but  the  tail  was  docked  triangularly  like  a 
hunter's. 


228  SPORTING   STORIES 

"  The  mat  was  cleared  of  all  persons  save  the  setters-to. 
The  betting  went  on  vociferously.  The  setters-to  taunted 
each  of  the  birds  with  the  other's  presence,  allowed  them 
to  strike  at  each  other  at  a  distance,  put  them  on  the  mat 
facing  each  other,  encouraged  their  crowing  and  mantling 
until  they  were  nearly  dangerous  to  hold,  then  loosed  them 
against  one  another  for  the  fatal  fight.  The  first  dart 
into  attitude  was  indeed  strikingly  grand  and  beautiful, 
and  the  wary  sparring  for  the  first  cut  was  extremely 
curious.  They  were  beak-point  to  beak-point  until  they 
dashed  up  in  one  tremendous  flirt  —  mingling  their 
powerful  wings  and  nervous  heels  in  one  furious  mass.  I 
can  only  compare  the  sound  of  the  first  flight  to  that  of  a 
wet  umbrella  forced  suddenly  open.  The  separation  was 
death-like.  The  yellow  bird  staggered  out  drooping,  dis- 
mantled, bleeding.  He  was  struck.  Fleming  and  Nash 
severally  took  their  birds,  examined  them  for  a  moment, 
then  again  set  them  opposite  each  other. 

"  The  handling  of  the  cocks  was  as  delicate  as  though 
they  had  been  of  foam  or  froth,  or  anything  else  that 
would  melt  in  the  grasp.  Fleming's  bird  staggered 
towards  his  opponent ;  but  he  was  hit  dreadfully,  and  ran 
like  a  drunken  man,  tottering  on  his  breast,  sinking  back 
on  his  tail,  while  Nash's,  full  of  fire,  gave  him  a  final  stroke, 
and  the  brave  bird  lay  a  draggled,  motionless  object  upon 
the  mat. 

"The  victor  cock  was  carried  away  slightly  scarred,  but 
rendered  doubly  fierce  by  the  short  encounter  he  had  been 
engaged  in.  He  seemed  to  have  grown  double  the  size. 
When  the  bets  had  all  been  settled,  the  two  Nashes  de- 
scended with  another  cock.  Sometimes  the  first  blow  was 
fatal ;  at  others  the  battle  was  long  and  doubtful,  and  the 
cocks  showed  all  the  obstinate  courage,  distress,  and 
breathlessness  which  mark  the  conflict  of  pugilists.  I  saw 
the  beak  open,  the  tongue  palpitate,  the  wing  drag  on  the 
mat,  and  even  the  sweat  break  out  on  the  feathers.  When 
the  battle  lasted  long,  and  the  cocks  lay  helpless  near  or 
upon  each  other,  one  of  the  feeders  counted  ten,  and  then 
the  birds  were  separated  and  set  to  at  the  inner  circle.  If 
one   bird  did  not  fight  while  forty  was  counted,  and  the 


THE    COCKPIT  229 

other  pecked  or  showed  signs  of  fight,  the  former  was  con- 
sidered conquered." 

Nor  were  the  Provinces  behind  London  in  their  keenness 
for  the  sport.  In  no  part  of  England  was  cock-fighting 
more  enthusiastically  followed  than  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne. 
The  Newcastle  Chronicle  of  a  century  ago  was  full  of  adver- 
tisements of  this  favourite  sport,  and  in  one  issue  six  mains 
are  announced,  the  aggregate  prizes  of  which  amounted  to 
;^730.  Nearly  all  the  principal  inns  had  covered  pits 
attached  to  them,  those  of  more  ancient  times  being  open. 
At  first  the  sports  were  carried  on  at  short  intervals 
during  the  season,  but  by  degrees  the  principal  fights  were 
concentrated  in  the  race  week,  the  gentlemen  of  Northum- 
berland appearing  as  the  antagonists  of  the  gentlemen  of 
Durham,  Cumberland,  or  Yorkshire.  Among  the  com- 
petitors in  Newcastle  cockpits  were  the  Duke  of  Hamilton, 
Sir  Henry  Liddel,  General  Beckwith,  Mr  Fenwick  of 
Bywell,  etc.  After  the  death  of  that  great  cocker  Sir 
Harry  Vane,  however,  the  sport  was  little  patronised  by 
the  gentry.  The  pit  in  Newcastle  was  usually  the  centre 
of  a  large  room  round  which  the  seats  were  ranged,  and 
with  an  inner  circle  railed  off  for  bookmakers.  Amongst 
these,  about  seventy  years  ago,  was  one  named  Sinclair, 
noted  for  his  extraordinary  memory  ;  he  never  used  pen  or 
pencil,  never  entered  a  bet,  yet  would  give  or  take  the  odds 
thirty  or  forty  times  without  making  a  mistake.  The  pit- 
men were  passionately  fond  of  cocking;  on  pay  Saturdays  a 
regular  tournament  was  got  up  for  their  delectation,  and 
although  the  price  of  admission  was  as  high  as  half  a  crown 
the  place  would  be  crowded. 

Long  after  the  sport  was  put  down  by  Act  of  Parliament, 
mains  continued  to  be  fought  in  spite  of  law,  police,  and 
fines,  even  among  the  influential  people  of  the  town.  A 
well-known  magistrate  who  died  only  a  few  years  ago 
kept  gamecocks,  and,  the  back  part  of  his  house  being  well 
screened  from  public  view,  frequently  had  a  fight  for  his 
own  entertainment  and  that  of  a  select  number  of  friends; 
among  the  latter  being  a  learned  judge  who  was  delighted 
to  assist  in  breaking  the  law — at  least  when  on  the  Northern 
Circuit.     Cocking,  however,  is  dead  and  gone,  although  I 


230  SPORTING    STORIES 

was  taken  not  so  very  long  ago  to  an  underground  estab- 
lishment in  London  where  a  large  number  of  gamecocks 
were  kept,  and  I  was  told  that  there  were  Members  of 
Parliament  who  sometimes  came  to  these  vaults  to  witness 
a  main  sub  rosa. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  PRIZE  RING 

In  the  eighteenth  century  the  Prize  Ring  was  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  national  sports  among  all  classes.  And 
for  that  popularity  one  man  was  mainly  responsible,  to 
wit,  John  Broughton,  the  "  Father  of  British  Boxing." 
There  were  so-called  champions  before  him  who  included 
boxing  among  their  displays  of  sword-play  and  single- 
stick, cudgel  and  quarter-staff;  but  Broughton  was  the  first 
to  reduce  fist-fighting  to  a  science.  He  was  a  waterman 
by  trade — a  big  man,  standing  over  5  ft.  11  ins,  and 
weighing  between  14  and  15  st.  His  fine,  athletic  figure, 
his  keen  eyes  and  intelligent  face,  won  him  general 
admiration.  His  patron  was  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  son 
of  George  II.,  afterwards  execrated  as  the  "Butcher  of 
Culloden,"  but  then  a  handsome  young  soldier,  whose 
gracious  manners  made  him  universally  popular.  Under 
this  distinguished  patronage  Broughton  beat  every  man 
that  was  matched  against  him  and  the  Duke  won  thousands 
of  pounds  by  backing  his  protege.  For  ten  years  Broughton 
held  the  Championship  unchallenged.  He  set  up  a  big 
amphitheatre  in  Hanway  Street,  off  Oxford  Street,  where 
the  public  was  entertained  by  combats  between  picked 
bruisers. 

In  addition  to  his  public  performances,  Broughton  opened 
a  house  in  the  Haymarket  for  private  pupils,  to  encourage 
whom  he  invented  the  gloves,  or  mufflers.  The  first 
advertisement  of  the  use  of  boxing-gloves  appeared  in  the 
Daily  Advertiser  in  February  1747  : — 

"  Mr  Broughton  proposes,  with  proper  assistance,  to  open 
an  academy  at  his  house  in  the  Haymarket,  for  the  instruc- 
tion  of  those    who   are   willin";   to   be   instructed   in    the 


232  SPORTING   STORIES 

mystery  of  boxing,  when  the  whole  theory  and  practice  of 
that  British  art,  with  all  the  various  stops,  blows,  cross- 
buttocks,  etc.,  incident  to  combatants,  will  be  fully  taught 
and  explained  ;  and  that  persons  of  quality  and  distinction 
may  not  be  debarred  from  entering  into  a  course  of  these 
lectures  they  will  be  given  with  the  utmost  tenderness  and 
regard  to  the  delicacy  of  the  frame  and  constitution  of  the 
pupil,  for  which  reason  mufflers  are  provided  that  will 
effectually  secure  them  from  the  inconveniencing  of  black 
eyes,  broken  jaws,  and  bloody  noses." 

This  announcement  caused  as  much  derision  among 
old  stagers  as  the  introduction  of  pads  did  amongst 
the  cricketers  who  had  stood  up  in  their  "  ducks "  to  the 
lightning  underhand  expresses  of  Brown  and  Beldham 
and  Osbaldeston.  But  the  gloves  soon  became  fashionable, 
and  gave  an  immense  impetus  to  the  popularity  of  boxing. 
From  an  old  print,  however,  I  gather  that  the  pupil  when 
boxing  with  his  tutor  was  allowed  to  use  his  bare  fists, 
while  the  gloves  protected  him  from  injury  at  the  hands  of 
the  professional. 

John  Broughton  was  famous  and  prosperous  when,  in  an 
evil  hour,  he  made  a  private  quarrel  an  excuse  for  once 
more  fighting  on  the  stage.  His  opponent  was  a  strapping 
young  butcher  from  Norwich,  named  John  Slack.  The 
battle  took  place  at  Broughton's  amphitheatre  on  the  loth 
of  April  1750.  The  place  was  crowded,  and  the  combatants 
set-to  in  the  presence  of  the  most  distinguished  gathering 
that  ever  assembled  to  witness  a  prize-fight.  Two  Royal 
Dukes  and  half  the  nobility  of  England  were  among  the 
spectators. 

Slack  was  a  finely  made  man,  about  thirty  years  old, 
standing  5  ft.  8|  ins.,  and  scaling  12^  st.  Broughton  stood 
5  ft.  II  ins.,  and  weighed  over  14  st.  He  was  in  his  forty- 
seventh  year,  and  therefore  had  a  great  disadvantage  in 
age,  but  from  constant  practice  he  was  active  for  his  years. 
So  confident  was  he  of  victory,  however,  that  he  had  made 
no  attempt  to  get  himself  into  condition. 

Yet,  when  he  began  to  fight,  he  showed  all  his  old 
skill,  and  Slack  never  once  in  the  first  five  rounds  got 
past  his  guard.     Broughton  did  all  the  fighting,  gave  his 


THE    PRIZE    RING  233 

man  no  rest,  and  rattled  his  blows  in  like  a  shower  of 
hailstones. 

In  the  sixth  round,  with  the  betting  still  lo  to  i  on 
Broughton,  Slack  made  a  sudden  spring  and  planted  right 
and  left  in  quick  succession  full  and  fair  between 
Broughton's  eyes.  The  effect  was  magical :  in  an  instant 
the  Champion's  puffy  flesh  swelled  up,  and  his  eyes  were 
closed.  He  seemed  suddenly  struck  blind,  and  groped 
his  way  about  the  ring  in  such  a  feeble  way  that  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  who  had  laid  ;^io,ooo  upon  him,  cried  out 
anxiously,  "  Why,  Broughton,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Why,  take  a  rest,  man  !" 

But  though  the  veteran  went  to  his  corner  and  rested,  it 
did  him  no  good.  He  was  worse  than  ever  when  he  stood 
up  again  ;  he  didn't  seem  to  know  where  his  adversary  was, 
and  let  Slack  strike  him  twice  without  making  any  attempt 
to  return  the  blows. 

"  Why,  damme,  Broughton,"  yelled  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land ;  "you're  beat,  man!  What  are  you  about,  man? 
Don't  lose  the  fight."  To  which  Broughton  shouted  back, 
"  I'm  not  beat,  your  Royal  Highness;  but  I  can't  see  my 
man  !  I'm  blind,  but  I'm  not  beat!  Only  let  me  see  my 
man,  and  I'll  win  yet!" 

It  was  a  vain  wish.  The  veteran's  eyes  were  hopelessly 
closed,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  tasted  defeat. 
He  was  led  away  helpless,  and  John  Slack  was  proclaimed 
Champion  of  England. 

Broughton  never  fought  again.  His  patron,  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  was  so  exasperated  at  losing  his  i^io,ooo  that 
for  a  long  while  he  would  not  forgive  Broughton  or  have 
anything  to  do  with  him.  The  patrons  who  had  pampered 
him  while  he  was  successful  deserted  him,  and  he  had  to 
give  up  his  Amphitheatre  and  retire  into  private  life.  But 
in  the  end  the  Duke  relented,  obtained  an  appointment  for 
his  old  protege,  and  left  him  an  annuity.  George  III.,  too, 
had  a  great  respect  for  the  old  gladiator,  and  never  passed 
him  without  raising  his  hand  and  shouting  out  a  genial 
"How  d'ye  do.  Master  Jack?" 

In  his  latter  days  Broughton  became  a  connoisseur  in 
articles  of  vertu  and  a  dabbler  in  stocks.     His  speculations 


234  SPORTING    STORIES 

must  have  been  successful,  for  when  he  died,  in  his  eighty- 
fifth  year,  on  the  8th  January  1789,  it  was  found  that  he 
was  worth  £yooo. 

The  best  monument  to  his  fame  is  the  Code  of  Rules 
which  he  drew  up  to  regulate  prize-fighting.  For  one 
hundred  years  they  governed  the  practice  of  the  Prize  Ring, 
till  superseded  by  the  New  Rules,  which  came  into  force 
in  1838.  I  subjoin  the  more  important  of  Broughton's 
Rules : — 

1.  That  a  square  yard  be  chalked  in  the  middle  of  the 
stage,  and  every  fresh  set-to  each  second  is  to  bring  his  man 
to  the  side  of  the  square  and  place  him  opposite  to  the 
other,  and  till  they  are  fairly  set-to  at  the  lines  it  shall  not 
be  lawful  for  the  one  to  strike  the  other. 

2.  That  in  order  to  prevent  any  disputes  as  to  the  time 
a  man  lies  after  a  fall,  if  the  second  does  not  bring  his  man 
to  the  side  of  the  square  within  half  a  minute  he  shall  be 
deemed  a  beaten  man. 

3.  That  in  every  main  battle  no  person  whatever  shall  be 
upon  the  stage  except  the  principals  and  the  seconds. 

4.  That  no  champion  be  deemed  beaten  unless  he  fails 
coming  up  to  the  line  in  the  limited  time,  or  that  his  own 
second  declares  him  beaten.  No  second  is  allowed  to 
ask  his  man's  adversary  any  question,  or  advise  him  to 
give  out. 

6.  That,  to  prevent  disputes,  in  every  main  battle  the 
principals  shall,  on  the  coming  on  the  stage,  choose  from 
among  the  gentlemen  present  two  umpires,  who  shall 
absolutely  decide  all  disputes ;  and,  if  the  two  umpires 
cannot  agree,  the  said  umpires  to  choose  a  third,  who  is  to 
determine  it. 

7.  That  no  person  is  to  hit  his  adversary  when  he  is 
down  or  seize  him  by  the  ham,  the  breeches,  or  any  part 
below  the  waist :  a  man  on  his  knees  to  be  reckoned 
down. 

An  even  more  potent  factor  in  the  popularity  of  the 
Prize  Ring  was  the  personality  of  John  Jackson — "The 
Emperor  of  Pugilism,"  as  his  friend  and  pupil  Lord  Byron 
called  him.  For  years  his  word  was  law  in  the  pugilistic 
world.     The  aristocracy,  from  the  Prince  of  Wales  down- 


THE    PRIZE    RING  235 

wards,  were  hand  in  glove  with  him.  Born  in  1769,  of 
respectable  middle-class  parentage,  Jackson  had  the  advan- 
tages of  a  good  education  and  a  magnificent  physique ; 
Byron  says  he  was  "  the  finest-formed  man  in  Europe." 
He  was  a  splendid  all-round  athlete,  and  could  lift  loj 
hundredweight  from  the  ground  without  straps,  and  write 
his  name  on  a  wall,  above  his  head,  with  84  lbs.  suspended 
from  his  little  finger, 

Jackson  was  admitted  to  be  the  most  formidable  fighter 
and  the  most  accomplished  boxer  that  had  been  seen  up  to 
that  time  in  the  Ring.  Yet  he  only  fought  three  battles, 
one  of  which  he  lost,  owing  to  his  accidentally  breaking  the 
small  bone  of  his  leg.  The  great  triumph  which  secured 
him  his  position  was  his  victory  over  Dan  Mendoza,  who 
for  years  had  held  the  Championship  of  England  and  was 
deemed  invincible. 

All  the  sporting  world  was  agog  with  excitement  over 
the  match,  and  the  betting  was  2  to  i  on  the  Jew,  whose 
beautiful  science,  especially  in  stopping,  was  thought  far  to 
outweigh  Jackson's  superiority  in  height  and  strength. 
The  fight  took  place  in  a  private  park  at  Hornchurch  in 
Essex,  on  the  15th  of  April  1795.  A  huge  wooden  amphi- 
theatre had  been  erected,  capable  of  seating  3000  spectators, 
with  a  raised  and  railed  stage  for  the  men  to  fight  on.  The 
place  was  crowded,  and  in  the  front  seats  were  dukes, 
marquises,  earls,  and  Royalty  itself  in  the  persons  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Duke  of  Clarence  (afterwards 
William  IV.).  The  last  time  Jackson  had  peeled  to  fight 
he  was  but  a  stripling ;  he  was  now  a  full-grown  man  of 
magnificent  proportions.  He  stood  5  ft.  11  ins.,  and 
weighed  14  st. 

Mendoza,  the  smallest  man  that  ever  held  the  Champion- 
ship of  England,  looked  a  mere  shrimp  beside  him,  for  Dan 
was  4  ins.  shorter  and  2|-  st.  lighter.  Yet  so  great  was  the 
confidence  of  his  backers  that  even  now  they  laid  6  to  4 
on  him. 

For  the  first  three  rounds  the  Jew  apparently  had  the 
best  of  the  fight.  His  wonderful  quickness  on  his  legs 
and  the  extraordinary  rapidity  with  which,  after  catching 
a  blow  on  his  arm,  he  returned  with  the  same  arm  a  chop- 


236  SPORTING   STORIES 

ping  blow  from  the  elbow  seemed  to  puzzle  Jackson,  His 
mighty  shoulder-hits  didn't  come  off;  he  couldn't  get  past 
Dan's  guard,  and  at  the  close  of  the  third  round  the 
betting  was  2  to  i  on  Mendoza. 

But  then  a  change  came  over  the  scene,  and  the  form  he 
showed  in  the  fourth  round  fairly  electrified  the  spectators. 
He  knocked  the  Jew  like  a  shuttlecock  all  round  the  ring. 
His  crashing  blows  from  the  shoulder  broke  through 
Mendoza's  guard  time  after  time,  and  sent  him  reeling 
against  the  rails.  At  last  one  fearful  smack  laid  open  the 
whole  of  Dan's  cheek  and  sent  him  sprawling  on  the  boards. 
This  was  a  new  style  of  fighting  altogether.  No  one  there 
had  ever  seen  anything  like  it  before.  Mendoza's  science 
seemed  to  be  nowhere  against  it,  and  there  was  silence 
among  his  backers  when  his  downfall  came. 

Never  before  had  the  Jew  met  with  such  unceremonious 
treatment,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  Jackson's  face  which 
made  the  punishment  all  the  more  galling  to  the  Champion, 
who  had  been  used  to  profound  respect  from  his  antagonists. 
Shaken  and  dazed,  but  full  of  pluck,  Mendoza  once  more 
faced  his  formidable  foe.  Jackson  regarded  him  for  a 
moment,  and  then  strode  suddenly  forward,  and  as  Dan  fell 
back  shot  out  his  open  left,  clutched  the  Jew  by  his  long, 
curly  black  hair  (which  Mendoza  was  too  proud  of  to  have 
cut),  forced  his  head  down,  upper-cut  him  savagely  in  the 
face  till  the  blood  ran  in  streams  from  nose  and  mouth,  and 
flung  the  Jew  from  him  like  an  empty  sack,  full  length  upon 
the  boards.  Mendoza's  backers  were  furious ;  "  Foul ! 
Foul !  "  they  shouted.  But  there  was  no  rule  then  against 
holding  by  the  hair,  and  the  referee  decided  that  Jackson  was 
perfectly  within  his  right  to  act  as  he  did  ;  though  Dan 
always  maintained  that  Jackson  had  taken  an  unfair 
advantage  of  him,  and  I  think  the  Jew  had  some  grounds 
for  his  charge.  Such  an  exhibition  had  the  "  Gentleman  " 
made  of  the  Jew  in  these  last  two  rounds  that  2  to  i  on 
Jackson  found  no  takers. 

For  the  next  three  rounds  the  Jew  kept  entirely  on  the 
defensive;  but,  do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  get  away 
from  Jackson's  resolute  attack.  Smash  through  his  guard 
came  those  sledge-hammer  blows,  and  sent  him  spinning 


THE    PRIZE    RING  237 

against  the  rails.  Once  again  Jackson  caught  him  by  the 
hair,  this  time  with  the  right  hand,  lifted  him  clean  off 
his  feet,  and,  with  a  thundering  smack  from  his  left,  sent 
Dan  on  his  back. 

It  was  evident  that  Mendoza  had  no  idea  how  to  meet 
this  novel  form  of  attack,  so  utterly  opposed  to  all  his 
theories  of  the  art  of  fighting.  In  the  ninth  round  Jackson 
walked  up  to  him  and  simply  did  what  he  pleased  with 
him.  So  fiercely  did  he  punish  the  unfortunate  Jew  that 
the  spectators  thought  Jackson  meant  killing  his  man. 
How  Mendoza  managed  to  keep  his  feet  under  the  storm 
of  blows  was  a  mystery.  Twice  Jackson  lifted  him  by 
the  hair  and  contemptuously  struck  him  with  the  palm  of 
his  open  hand,  as  one  would  box  the  ears  of  an  impudent 
urchin,  then,  with  one  smashing  hit  on  the  face  knocked 
poor  Dan  out  of  time  and  shattered  his  reputation  for  ever. 
The  fight  only  lasted  twelve  minutes,  and  in  that  brief 
space  Mendoza  and  the  school  of  boxing  he  had  founded 
were  wiped  out,  and  the  once  popular  gladiator  dropped 
into  obscurity  and  ended  his  days  in  poverty. 

From  that  time  forward  Jackson  was  supreme  in  the 
pugilistic  world.  He  founded  a  new  style,  which  he  from 
time  to  time  improved  till  it  became  recognised  as  the 
only  true  method  of  scientific  boxing.  His  rooms  at  13 
Bond  Street  became  one  of  the  most  fashionable  lounges 
for  the  men  about  town,  and  Jackson  for  many  years  made 
an  income  of  considerably  over  a  thousand  a  year,  and  this 
in  days  when  professional  incomes  of  a  thousand  a  year 
were  rare. 

Jackson  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  remarkably  fine-looking 
man,  and  he  dressed  extremely  well.  His  manners,  too, 
were  perfect ;  and,  in  illustration  of  the  quality  which 
earned  him  the  title  of  "  Gentleman,"  I  give  the  following 
anecdote,  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  Captain  Horatio 
Ross,  the  famous  rifle-shot: 

"  I  knew  Jackson,"  writes  Captain  Ross,  "  and  can  vouch 
for  the  truth  of  this  story.  A  man  who  only  recently  died 
— a  great  politician  in  his  younger  days — was  a  patron  of 
the  Ring,  as,  indeed,  we  all  were  then,  and  he  was  a  first- 
rate  man,  either  with  or  without  gloves.      His  wife  did  not 


238  SPORTING    STORIES 

approve  of  this,  and  sometimes  expressed  surprise  that 
a  really  great  man,  as  her  husband  was,  could  have  any 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  '  such  ruffians  as  prize-fighters.' 
He  resolved  to  play  his  wife  a  harmless  little  trick.  He 
invited  Jackson  to  dinner,  and  told  him : — 

" '  Remember  you  are  Colonel  Jackson,  and  have  been  in 
most  of  the  battles  of  the  Peninsula,  Waterloo,  etc.,  etc' 

"  Colonel  Jackson  was  announced,  made  himself  most 
agreeable,  and  played  the  part  of  Colonel  to  perfection. 
After  he  had  left,  the  lady  remarked  that  Colonel  Jackson 
was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  and  interesting  men  she 
had  ever  met.  '  You  must  ask  him  to  dine  with  us  again  ! ' 
said  she. 

" '  With  pleasure,'  was  the  reply  ;  '  but  when  he  dines 
with  us  again  you  must  receive  him  as  John  Jackson  the 
pugilist,  not  Colonel  Jackson  the  Peninsula  hero  I ' " 

Mr  Edward  Hay  ward  Budd,  the  greatest  all-round  athlete 
of  his  time — cricketer,  boxer,  wrestler,  runner,  game-shot — 
has  also  told  some  good  stories  of  Jackson,  of  whom  he 
was  a  contemporary. 

"  Jackson,"  says  Mr  Budd,  "  used  to  teach  the  children 
sparring  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  nobility,  it  being 
a  fashionable  and  indeed  an  essential  accomplishment. 
There  was  a  certain  duchess  who  was  always  present  while 
her  sons  were  taking  their  lessons,  Jackson  being  on  his 
knees  to  be  more  on  a  level  with  his  pupils. 

"  Jackson  used  to  tell  a  laughable  anecdote  of  himself. 
A  former  pupil,  a  colonel  in  the  Indian  army,  had,  after 
many  years'  absence  in  the  East,  returned  to  London. 
Jackson  called  at  the  time  the  colonel  was  advertising  a 
lost  pug  dog.  The  colonel  was  from  home,  and  on  his 
return  the  maid-servant  told  him  that  Mr  Jackson  the 
pugilist  had  called,  adding,  '  I  dare  say,  sir,  he  has  called 
about  the  dog.' " 

For  more  than  thirty  years  Jackson  was  a  conspicuous 
figure  in  London  life.  Men  of  letters  and  fashion  courted 
his  society.  Lord  Byron  always  spoke  of  him  affectionately 
as  "  my  corporeal  pastor  and  master,"  and  there  was  hardly 
a  person  of  celebrity  whom  John  Jackson  did  not  number 
among  his  acquaintances  or  patrons. 


THE    PRIZE   RING  239 

He  amassed  a  considerable  fortune,  which  enabled  him 
to  retire  and  enjoy  an  old  age  of  leisure  and  comfort,  till 
his  last  summons  came  on  the  17th  of  October  1845,  when 
he  had  just  completed  his  seventy-seventh  year.  The 
elaborate  monument  erected  to  his  memory  by  his  numerous 
admirers  testifies  to  the  respect  in  which  he  was  held  by 
sportsmen  of  all  classes,  and  is  still  one  of  the  sights  of 
Brompton  Cemetery. 

So  long  as  John  Broughton  was  Champion  of  England, 
prize-fighting  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  the  best  sportsmen 
in  the  kingdom.  In  those  days  big  battles  were  usually 
fought  on  a  stage  erected  at  one  of  the  London  amphi- 
theatres, and  people  crowded  to  see  them  as  they  would 
nowadays  to  a  pantomime  at  Drury  Lane.  Women  and 
even  children  were  among  the  spectators,  and  a  varied 
entertainment  preceded  the  great  event  of  the  day.  Doors 
were  opened  as  early  as  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  though 
the  fight,  which  was  ^q piece  de  resistance^  did  not  usually 
commence  till  twelve  or  one  o'clock. 

But  directly  after  Broughton's  defeat  by  Slack,  prize- 
fighting began  to  fall  into  disrepute.  Slack  himself  was  a 
"  wrong  'un,"  and  his  half-dozen  successors  to  the  Champion- 
ship were  "  wrong  'uns,"  who  sold  their  fights,  played  cross, 
and  did  any  and  every  blackguardly  trick  which  their 
rascally  patrons  ordered  them  to  do. 

English  pugilism  had  reached  its  nadir,  and  was  patron- 
ised only  by  the  lowest  of  the  low,  when  a  champion  arose 
who  not  only  raised  the  character  of  the  Ring,  but  gave  it 
a  prestige  greater  than  it  had  ever  enjoyed  before.  This 
hero  was  Thomas  Jackling,  of  Derby,  better  known  by  his 
nofn  de  guerre  of  Tom  Johnson. 

Johnson  was  succeeded  by  Big  Ben  Brain,  the  favourite 
hero  of  George  Borrow,  a  fine  fighter  and  an  honest  man. 
Then  came  Mendoza,  and  for  nearly  forty  years — from 
Dan's  great  fight  with  Gentleman  Humphries  to  Tom 
Spring's  last  fight  with  Jack  Langan — prize-fighting  was 
the  most  popular  sport  in  England.  Those  were  the  days 
of  the  two  Belchers,  the  Game  Chicken  (Hen  Pearce),  Gully, 
Cribb,  Gregson,  Molineux  the  Black,  Dutch  Sam,  Jack 
Randall,  Tom  Hickman  (the  terrible  "  Gas  "),  Ned  Painter 


240  SPORTING   STORIES 

of  Norwich,  Bill  Neate  (the  "  Bristol  Bull  "),  Gentleman 
Jackson,  George  Cooper,  Ned  Turner,  and  many  others. 
Among  the  patrons  of  pugilism  were  numbered  the  best 
men  in  every  class  of  society — noblemen  and  gentlemen, 
county  magnates  and  City  aldermen.  Twenty  or  thirty 
thousand  eager  spectators  would  gather  round  a  ring,  and 
the  money  that  changed  hands  over  the  event  was  seldom 
reckoned  under  six  figures. 

Those  palmy  days  lasted  until  1824,  when  Spring  and 
Langan  fought  their  two  great  battles — the  first  at  Worcester, 
the  second  at  Chichester.  Thirty  thousand  spectators 
witnessed  the  first  of  these  combats  on  the  Pitchcroft. 
How  many  were  present  at  the  second  I  have  no  idea,  but 
never  in  its  history  has  Chichester  seen  such  an  influx  of 
visitors. 

After  his  victory  that  day  Spring  resigned  the  Champion- 
ship, and  from  his  retirement  dates  the  downfall  of  the 
Ring.  For  Spring,  like  Cribb  and  his  predecessors  back  to 
Tom  Johnson,  was  a  man  of  stainless  honour  who  was 
respected  and  admired  by  everyone,  but  the  same  could 
not  be  said  of  his  successor,  Jem  Ward.  Jem's  conduct  in 
the  Ring  was  not  always  above  suspicion.  Twice  he 
yielded  to  temptation,  and  once  he  was  publicly  expelled 
from  the  Ring  by  the  Pugilistic  Club.  That  he  redeemed 
these  errors  by  some  brilliant  victories  is  true ;  but  he 
alienated  some  of  the  best  patrons  of  the  Prize  Ring  by  his 
early  misdeeds,  and  they  would  never  again  countenance  a 
sport  of  which  the  Champion  was  a  man  whose  honour  was 
stained. 

So  the  best  supporters  of  the  Ring  turned  away  in 
disgust,  and  from  the  advent  of  Jem  Ward  prize-fighting 
declined  as  a  national  sport.  The  battles  of  Bendigo  and 
Ben  Caunt,  accompanied  as  they  were  by  scenes  of  the 
most  outrageous  ruffianism,  still  further  alienated  the 
sympathies  of  those  who  loved  to  see  a  fair  stand-up  fight 
with  fists.  And  so  the  Ring  went  from  bad  to  worse,  till 
its  name  stank  in  the  nostrils  of  respectable  sportsmen. 
One  last  flicker  of  popularity,  however,  it  enjoyed,  for 
which  it  was  indebted  to  Tom  Sayers,  who  by  his  courage 
and  honesty  gave  the  old  sport  a  new  lease  of  life — not  a 


THE    PRIZE    RING  241 

very  long  lease,  certainly,  but  enough  to  enable  the  venerable 
Prize  Ring  to  die  decently,  with  something  even  of  splendour 
about  its  final  exit. 

But  low  as  the  Ring  had  fallen  in  England  at  the  time 
when  Sayers  first  sprang  into  fame,  it  was  never  in  such 
an  utterly  barbarous  state  as  in  America.  Ruffianism  and 
blackguardism  were  unfortunately  too  often  the  accompani- 
ments of  pugilism  in  this  country,  but  even  our  ruffians 
and  blackguards  were  of  a  more  civilised  type  than  those 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

In  one  of  the  fights  of  John  Morrissey,  the  notorious 
ruffian  who  rose  to  be  a  member  of  the  Legislative 
Assembly,  his  opponent  was  a  saloon  rowdy  named  Bill 
Poole.  In  order  that  I  may  not  be  accused  of  giving  a 
garbled  account  of  the  affair,  I  will  quote  the  words  of  the 
American  reporter : — 

"  There  was  no  ring,  but  by  general  consent  the  throng 
had  kept  a  space  open  for  the  combat.  Poole,  in  his 
undershirt,  was  ready  when  his  rival  appeared. 

"  Morrissey  threw  off  his  coat  and  shirt,  and  stood  in  his 
red  flannel  undershirt,  as  brawny  a  young  bruiser  as  the 
most  enthusiastic  admirer  of  muscle  could  desire  to  see. 
Poole  was  a  model  of  powerful  physique,  and  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  of  the  day,  carrying  himself  at  the  same 
time  most  gracefully. 

"  The  fight  began  with  some  light  sparring,  Poole  on 
the  defensive,  and  his  opponent  laying  out  for  a  chance  to 
close.  Then  Morrissey  made  a  rush.  But  Poole  was  too 
quick  for  him.  As  Morrissey  struck  at  him,  Poole  ducked 
and  seized  him  by  the  ankles.  In  a  second  more  he  had 
thrown  him  clean  over  his  head,  and,  still  gripping  him 
by  the  ankles,  had  turned  and  fallen  on  top  of  him.  The 
scene  which  followed  was  indescribable.  The  fighters, 
clutching  one  another  with  grips  of  steel,  gouged,  bit, 
butted,  and  pounded  each  other  without  cessation.  They 
never  changed  their  positions,  because  they  could  not ;  for 
the  moment  they  fell  down  the  crowd  closed  in  on  them 
till  its  feet  touched  their  bodies,  and  the  first  row  on  each 
side  had  its  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  those  opposite, 
keeping  them  far  enough  back  for  the  combatants  to  have 

i6 


242  SPORTING    STORIES 

room  to  fight  at  all.  The  wonder  was,  not  that  they  did 
not  kill  each  other,  but  that  they  were  not  trampled  to 
death.  But  not  a  hand  was  raised  to  interfere  with  or 
favour  either  contestant.  If  Morrissey  ever  had  a  square 
deal  he  had  it  then.  Still,  he  was  doomed.  With  Poole 
on  him  as  irremovably  as  if  he  had  been  frozen  there, 
Morrissey  did  his  best  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  his  voice 
was  heard,  suffocated  with  blood.  '  I'm  satisfied,'  it  said. 
The  crowd  opened  of  its  own  accord,  and  Poole  got  on  his 
feet.  Morrissey  got  up  without  assistance.  He  was  fright- 
fully punished.  He  had  to  wipe  the  blood  from  his  eyes 
with  his  white  shirt,  which  somebody  handed  to  him,  before 
he  could  see  to  walk,  Poole  had  got  a  terrible  mauling 
too.  His  worst  hurt  was  a  great  gash  in  his  cheek  where 
Morrissey  had  bitten  him.  Morrissey  had  to  keep  his  bed 
for  weeks  after  the  fight." 

On  another  occasion,  when  fighting  a  man  named 
M'Cann,  Morrissey  was  thrown  heavily.  As  he  fell  a 
stove  was  overturned,  a  bushel  of  red-hot  coals  rolled  out, 
and  Morrissey  was  forced  on  them.  M'Cafin  held  him 
there  until  the  smell  of  burning  flesh  filled  the  room.  The 
bystanders  threw  water  on  the  coals,  and  the  gas  and 
steam  rose  in  M'Cann's  face  and  choked  him.  Morrissey 
then  had  his  own  way,  and  pounded  M'Cann  into  in- 
sensibility. 

Now  such  brutal  fights  as  those  in  which  Morrissey  dis- 
tinguished himself  would  never  have  been  tolerated  in 
England.  The  Prize  Ring  with  its  rules  of  fair  play  had  at 
any  rate  had  so  much  influence  on  Englishmen  that  it  had 
produced  an  abhorrence  of  weapons  like  the  revolver  and 
the  bowie-knife,  and  of  unmanly  and  treacherous  assaults. 
The  leading  prize-fighters  of  America  were  rowdies  who 
kept  gambling-hells  and  night-houses  in  which  robbery 
and  murder  were  common  occurrences.  Now  I  do  not 
pretend  that  there  were  not  in  London  some  dens  of 
iniquity  where  fools  with  more  money  than  sense  were 
hocussed  and  robbed,  and  occasionally  put  out  of  the  way 
altogether,  nor  that  professional  pugilists  were  sometimes 
the  proprietors.  But  such  men  were  the  scum  of  the 
profession — not  its  leading  lights,   as  in   New   York.      In 


THE    PRIZE    RING  243 

London,  Birmingham,  Manchester,  Sheffield,  and  Liverpool 
there  were  public-houses  kept  by  well-known  pugilists 
which  were  noted  for  their  respectability — houses  which 
decent  sportsmen  could  frequent  without  fear  of  losing 
either  their  characters  or  their  money.  Tom  Spring, 
Peter  Crawley,  Jem  Burn,  Owen  Swift,  Nat  Langham, 
Dan  Dismore,  and  many  other  prize-fighters  were  landlords 
of  some  of  the  best-conducted  hostelries  in  the  kingdom. 
In  New  York  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 

And  then,  in  estimating  the  difference  between  the 
Prize  Ring  in  America  and  in  England,  there  must  not  be 
forgotten  the  influence  exercised  by  Bell's  Life.  That 
journal,  under  its  two  famous  editors  Vincent  Dowling  and 
his  son  Frank,  had  a  wonderful  effect  in  keeping  the  Ring 
true  to  its  traditions  of  manliness  and  fair  play.  Both 
those  journalists  threw  themselves  heart  and  soul  into  the 
work  of  elevating  British  sport  in  every  phase,  but 
especially  did  they  strive  to  raise  the  Prize  Ring  and 
counteract  the  evil  influences  that  were  sapping  its 
foundations.  They  were  not  always  successful,  but  they 
undoubtedly  saved  it  from  sinking  into  utter  degradation 
and  so  long  as  Bell's  Life  was  a  power  in  the  world  ol 
sport  there  was  some  hope  that  prize-fighting  might  hold 
its  own  as  a  manly  and  honourable  British  institution.  At 
any  rate,  in  the  two  Bowlings  it  had  fearless  critics  and 
honest  counsellors,  whose  pens  were  always  wielded  in  the 
cause  of  manliness,  integrity,  and  fair  play. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  NOBLE  ART  OF  SELF-DEFENCE 

In  reading  Digby  Grand  again  I  was  struck  with  the 
change  that  has  come  over  the  sports  of  the  man  about 
town  since  that  book  was  written.  Even  ten  years  after  it 
was  published,  when  I  first  knew  my  London,  there  was 
something  sordid  and  degrading  about  what  was  commonly 
known  as  Sport.  It  was  thought  the  correct  thing  to 
patronise  sparring  matches  at  the  saloons  attached  to 
public-houses  kept  by  retired  prize-fighters,  or  ratting 
matches  run  by  such  celebrities  in  the  canine  world  as 
Jemmy  Shaw.  Now  and  then  the  ardent  lover  of  "  The 
Fancy "  was  privileged  to  assist  at  a  "  little  mill  with  the 
'  raw  'uns ' "  in  some  secluded  stable  in  the  slums,  or  a 
main  of  cocks  in  some  evil-smelling  cellar.  When  I  look 
back,  I  realise  how  disreputable  were  the  places  we  fre- 
quented and  the  people  with  whom  we  consorted.  And 
yet  there  was  a  fascination  about  these  unconventional 
sports.  We  youngsters  thought  that  we  were  "  seeing  life  " 
when  we  hob-nobbed  with  bruisers  and  dog-fanciers  in  low- 
ceilinged  tavern  parlours,  and  sat  cheek  by  jowl  with 
Bohemian  blackguards  of  all  sorts.  But  what  a  change 
has  come  over  the  sports  of  the  man-about-town  !  As  I 
sit  in  the  well-lighted,  airy  hall  of  the  National  Sporting 
Club,  and  watch  boxing  as  clever  as  any  one  could  wish  to 
see,  I  think  of  nights  with  the  Rum-pum-pas  at  old  Nat 
Langham's,  and  I  admit  unhesitatingly  that  the  London 
sportsman  of  to-day  is  far  better  catered  for  than  his  pre- 
decessor of  fifty  years  ago.  And  he  is  not  so  villainously 
swindled  as  we  were  ;  we  never  got  our  money's  worth  or 
anything  like  it.  We  paid  preposterous  prices  for  execrable 
liquors.     We  put  down  our  sovereigns  for  a  rattling  good 

244 


NOBLE   ART   OF   SELF-DEFENCE    245 

set-to,  not  suspecting  at  the  time  that  "  old  Nat"  deducted 
fifteen  shillings  in  the  pound  before  rewarding  the  per- 
formers. 

But  in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  things 
were  better  ordered.  In  the  days  of  the  Regency  sparring 
exhibitions  between  members  of  the  Upper  Ten  were 
almost  as  common  as  they  are  now  between  gentlemen  of 
the  gutter.  Lord  Mexborough  and  the  Hon.  Fletcher 
Norton  were  at  one  time  Gentleman  Jackson's  favourite 
pupils,  and  so  evenly  matched  that  a  challenge  was  given 
and  accepted  between  the  two  to  try  which  was  the  better 
man.  Such  a  sensation  was  created  by  this  event,  that  on 
the  afternoon  on  which  it  came  off  Rotten  Row  was 
deserted  by  the  male  sex,  and  Jackson's  rooms  in  Bond 
Street  were  crammed  like  Dury  Lane  gallery  on  Boxing- 
night.  It  was  regarded  as  a  match  between  the  House  of 
Lords  and  the  House  of  Commons.  Both  the  combatants 
were  light-weights  and  splendid  boxers,  and  for  a  long  time 
victory  hung  in  the  balance ;  for,  while  Mexborough  was 
the  quicker  at  out-fighting,  Norton  was  stronger  in  the 
rally;  but  strength  prevailed  at  last,  and  Lord  Mexborough 
was  knocked  clean  over  the  benches,  amidst  tremendous 
cheering.  Grantly  Berkeley  tells  us  in  his  memoirs  that 
after  dinner  at  Crockford's  the  tables  would  be  frequently 
put  aside  and  the  room  converted  into  an  arena,  and  Tom 
Spring  and  Owen  Swift  and  other  boxers  would  amuse  the 
company  with  a  display  of  their  science.  At  other  times 
the  room  would  be  turned  into  a  cockpit,  and  a  main 
fought  by  candle-light. 

In  those  hot  days  when  George  III.  was  King  every 
gentleman  could  use  his  fists.  The  Prince  of  Wales  was 
particularly  proud  of  his  skill,  and  firmly  believed  that  had 
he  not  been  Prince  of  Wales  he  would  have  run  Jackson 
and  Cribb  close  for  the  Championship  of  England.  When 
discussing  boxing  with  a  lady  one  day,  he  said  :  "  I  was  out 
with  my  harriers  last  year,  when  we  found  a  hare,  but  the 
scent  was  catching,  so  that  we  could  get  no  continuous 
pace  at  all.  There  was  a  butcher — damme,  madam,  a  big 
fellow,  15  stone,  standing  6  feet  2 — the  bully  of  all 
Brighton.     He  over-rode  my  hounds  several  times,  and  I 


246  SPORTING   STORIES 

asked  him  to  hold  hard  in  vain.  At  last,  damme,  madam, 
he  rode  over  my  favourite  bitch  Ruby.  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  but,  jumping  off  my  horse,  said,  '  Get  down,  you 
rascal,  and  pull  off  your  coat.'  We  fought  for  about  an 
hour  and  twenty  minutes,  the  field  forming  a  ring  round 
us,  and  at  the  end  of  it  the  big  bully  butcher  of  Brighton 
was  carried  away  senseless,  while  I  had  scarcely  a  scratch." 
Scarcely  the  sort  of  story  to  amuse  a  lady  at  the  present 
day.  As  to  its  veracity,  perhaps  the  less  said  the  better. 
George  was  given  to  romancing. 

Captain  Millbank,  R.N.,  was  a  first-rate  fighter.  The 
crew  of  his  barge  had  quarrelled  with  that  of  H.M.S. 
Berwick  and  got  soundly  drubbed.  Captain  Millbank, 
hearing  of  this,  called  his  men  a  lot  of  cowardly  lubbers, 
dressed  himself  as  a  sailor  next  day,  and  in  his  barge 
overtook  the  Berwick's  barge,  which  he  purposely  fouled. 
High  words,  of  course,  ensued,  ending  in  the  Captain 
offering  to  fight  their  best  man,  which  he  did,  not  only 
defeating  him,  but  the  whole  boat's  crew,  one  after  another. 

The  famous  John  Mytton  of  Halston  had  numerous 
fights,  although  he  never  received  any  instruction  in  boxing ; 
and  old  Captain  Taylor  of  York  used  to  relate  with  much 
gusto  how,  when  he  was  young,  he  and  Jack  Mytton 
thrashed  a  cellarful  of  blacklegs  in  Chester,  for  which  both 
were  locked  up  for  the  night.  On  another  occasion,  when 
the  Squire  of  Halston,  then  but  nineteen,  was  coursing,  a 
burly  miner  would  not  desist  from  halloaing  after  the  hare, 
though  several  times  requested  to  do  so.  A  fight,  and  a 
hard  one,  between  Mytton  and  the  miner  ensued,  the  latter 
at  last  giving  in,  when  the  Squire  not  only  gave  the  man 
the  hare  and  half  a  sovereign,  but  told  him  to  go  up  to 
the  Hall  and  have  a  bellyful  of  meat  and  drink  as  well. 

Another  good  man  with  his  hands  was  Hope  Johnstone, 
who,  in  1843,  having  quarrelled  with  the  landlord  of  the 
Black  Bull  at  Northallerton,  first  thrashed  him,  then  took 
on  Tom  Dawson,  Bob  Haseltine,  the  guard  of  the  mail,  and 
a  recruiting  officer  one  after  another,  and  disposed  of  them 
all.  He  was  always  ready  for  a  "  fecht " ;  and,  having  really 
an  innate  relish  for  the  pastime,  was  as  often  seen  with 
a  black  eye  as  without.     On  one  occasion  at  Doncaster  a 


NOBLE   ART   OF   SELF-DEFENCE    247 

London  leg  tried  to  draw  from  him  twice,  the  bet  having 
been  paid  on  the  course,  when  Hope  Johnstone  gave  the 
ruffian  a  hiding  which  he  remembered  for  a  month  of 
Sundays. 

Johnstone's  best  Turf  spec  was  buying  Era  out  of  Scotts' 
stables  for  a  mere  trifle,  and  afterwards  winning  the 
Northumberland  Plate,  the  Liverpool  Cup,  and  other  first- 
class  races  with  him,  though  the  Scotts  were  never  able  to 
make  the  horse  gallop  at  all.  He  also  had  a  good  animal 
in  William  le  Gros,  on  which  he  himself  beat  British 
Yeoman  at  Doncaster,  in  a  match  for  looo  guineas. 
It  was  said  of  him  in  1849  that,  "with  the  air  of  a  raw 
heather  laird  and  the  accent  of  a  drover  this  Northern 
Turfite  combined  naturally  acute  wits  that  made  him  more 
than  a  match  for  the  cleverest  legs  about  town ;  whilst  his 
infernal  knuckles  and  readiness  to  use  them  were  not  with- 
out their  influence  in  the  pandemonia  of  the  metropolis." 

That  most  earnest  philanthropist,  the  late  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury, was  a  famous  boxer  in  his  younger  days ;  and  when 
he  opened  the  Exeter  Hall  Gymnasium  he  gave  some 
reminiscences  of  his  youthful  fights,  in  which  he  evidently 
revelled,  much  to  the  horror  of  some  of  the  audience.  The 
Earl's  elder  brother,  the  Hon.  Francis  Ashley  Cooper,  was 
killed  in  a  fight  at  Eton  by  a  school-fellow  named  Fred 
Wood.  They  fought  for  more  than  two  hours,  and  Cooper 
died  the  same  evening. 

Few  people  who  were  familiar  with  the  slight  frame  and 
ascetic  face  of  Cardinal  Manning  would  imagine  that  in  his 
youth  he  was  a  cricketer  of  no  mean  proficiency,  and,  like 
Lord  Shaftesbury,  a  particularly  clever  boxer.  He  could 
hold  his  own  with  his  gloves  in  very  good  company,  and  a 
priest  who  was  trained  under  him  told  a  friend  of  mine  that 
when  he  grew  demonstrative  in  the  pulpit,  he  had  a  knack 
of  throwing  his  body  into  the  correct  pugilistic  attitude. 
And  this  reminds  me  that  one  of  the  highest  tributes  ever 
paid  to  British  boxing  came  from  another  Cardinal,  an 
Italian. 

In  a  sermon  which  he  preached  in  Rome  at  the  end  of 
the  last  century  on  the  cowardice  of  using  the  stiletto,  the 
Cardinal   said,   "  Why    do   you    not   fight   like  the   brave 


248  SPORTING   STORIES 

Englishmen — with  Nature's  weapons  ? "  Then  he  gave 
them  a  stirring  account  of  the  fight  between  Humphries 
and  Mendoza,  which  he  had  witnessed,  dwelling  on  the 
manliness  and  fair  play  which  characterised  the  combat, 
and  urging  them  to  settle  their  quarrels  in  the  like 
manner.  That  was  how  British  prize-fighting  struck  a 
foreigner,  and  an  ecclesiastic  of  cultured  and  refined  tastes, 
and  he,  at  any  rate,  did  not  regard  the  spectacle  of  a  prize- 
fight as  brutalising  or  demoralising. 

One  of  the  most  enthusiastic  lovers  of  the  noble  art  I 
ever  met  was  the  late  George  Borrow,  author  of  The  Bible 
in  Spain  and  Lavengro.  I  have  often  listened  to  him  as 
he  told  in  his  dramatic  way  thrilling  stories  of  prize-fighters, 
for  many  of  whom  he  had  the  highest  admiration.  He 
was  himself  a  fine  boxer,  and  his  great  height,  strength,  and 
fearlessness  made  him  a  most  formidable  opponent — as 
rogues  and  bullies  at  country  fairs  found  to  their  cost.  His 
description  of  the  fight  between  Tom  Oliver  and  Phil 
Sampson  in  Lavengro  and  his  own  combat  with  "  The 
Flaming  Tinman,"  are  two  of  the  most  striking  episodes  in 
that  wonderful  book. 

Of  the  usefulness  of  boxing  as  a  healthy  exercise,  I 
might  give  countless  instances.  Mr  Rufus  Choate,  the 
recently  retired  American  Ambassador,  is  now  over  seventy, 
yet  he  still  indulges  in  an  occasional  set-to  with  the  gloves 
and  attributes  his  remarkable  vigour  to  the  constant  practice 
of  boxing  all  through  his  life. 

Of  the  value  of  boxing  as  a  means  of  self-defence  a  remark- 
able illustration  was  once  given  by  the  Right  Honourable 
William  Windham,  whom  Macaulay  describes  as  "the 
finest  gentleman  of  the  age."  Windham,  then  Colonial 
Secretary  in  the  Grenville  administration,  was  defending 
the  Prize  Ring  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  to  illustrate 
the  usefulness  of  boxing  told  the  following  anecdote : — 

"  One  night  I  was  bidding  adieu  to  a  young  lady  at  the 
Opera,  when  her  brother  pressed  me  to  take  a  sandwich 
with  them  in  St  James's  Street,  On  our  way  there  two 
men  rushed  out  of  an  entry  and  tried  to  seize  the  lady, 
who  at  that  moment  was  unguarded  on  the  right  hand,  her 
brother   being   a  few  paces  in  the  rear.     On  hearing  his 


NOBLE   ART   OF   SELF-DEFENCE    249 

sister  scream  he  bounded  forward,  and  with  one  blow  laid 
the  foremost  of  her  assailants  in  the  gutter.  He  was  barely 
over  five  feet,  while  these  fellows  were  tall,  raw-boned 
coal-heavers  ;  and  although  one  was  hors  de  combat,  I  was 
alarmed  about  the  other,  and  shouted  lustily  for  the  watch. 
My  companion  was  not  in  the  least  daunted,  however.  '  You 
take  care  of  my  sister,'  he  said, '  and  if  I  cannot  manage 

a  pair  of  rascals  like  these  I  ought  to  be  d d  ! '     The 

second  ruffian  aimed  a  blow  at  me,  but  I  avoided  it,  and 
saved  my  fair  partner  from  harm,  while  our  little  champion 
rushed  forward,  received  a  blow  on  his  arm,  and  returned 
it  with  one  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  which  tumbled  the 
fellow  headlong  into  an  area  at  least  three  yards  deep. 
This  was  all  the  work  of  an  instant,  and  our  skilful 
champion  seizing  hold  of  his  sister's  arm,  we  arrived 
safely  at  his  house.  This  will,  I  think,  establish  the 
usefulness  of  pugilism.  Had  my  friend  known  as  little  of 
the  science  as  the  coal-heavers,  the  consequences  might 
have  been  serious  unless  he  had  had  his  sword,  when 
indeed  he  might  have  killed  them  in  a  gentlemanly  manner. 
The  next  day  I  put  myself  under  a  master  of  the  art  of 
self-defence,  and  I  consider  a  knowledge  of  boxing  to  be 
as  necessary  to  the  education  of  a  gentleman  as  Greek  and 
Latin." 

And  even  in  these  days  a  knowledge  of  boxing  may 
be  a  very  useful  accomplishment.  I  had  this  fact  brought 
home  to  me  not  so  very  long  since,  when  I  was  a  spectator 
of  a  presentation  to  a  popular  clergyman  in  a  suburb  of 
London.  The  police  of  the  district  publicly  presented  the 
parson  with  a  very  handsome  pipe,  and  his  wife  with  a 
valuable  bracelet,  in  recognition  of  his  plucky  conduct  in 
rescuing  a  constable  who  was  being  brutally  assaulted  by 
a  mob  of  roughs.  The  policeman  was  down,  and  his  assail- 
ants were  kicking  him  in  a  most  savage  fashion,  when  the 
parson — a  little,  thick-set  man — dashed  in  among  them, 
sent  them  flying  right  and  left  with  hits  straight  from  the 
shoulder,  and  assisted  the  fallen  man  to  his  feet.  Then  the 
two  of  them,  back  to  back,  fought  the  crowd  till  reinforce- 
ments arrived  and  the  currish  crew  incontinently  fled. 

This  same  parson  was  in  the  habit  of  holding  open-air 


250  SPORTING    STORIES 

services  at  the  street  corners.  When  first  he  started  these 
services  the  roughs  used  to  gather  round  and  jeer  at  him, 
using  the  foulest  language.  He  saw  that  this  must  be 
stopped  at  once,  so  one  evening,  after  the  service  was  over, 
he  singled  out  the  biggest  fellow  among  them,  who  had 
made  himself  conspicuous  in  annoying  the  little  band  of 
worshippers,  went  up  to  him,  and  said :  "  Now  look  here, 
my  man.  You  have  been  behaving  yourself  like  a  filthy 
beast,  and  I  mean  to  teach  you  a  lesson.  Put  up  your 
hands  if  you're  a  man."  The  hulking  lout  grinned  as  he 
looked  down  upon  the  little  parson,  and  prepared  to 
demolish  him  before  the  eyes  of  his  admiring  pals.  The 
fight  was  very  short.  Twice  the  parson  knocked  the  man 
clean  off  his  legs.  Then  the  hooligan  gave  in  ;  and  never 
again  were  the  parson's  out-door  services  disturbed. 

I  think  the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of  boxing  I  ever  came 
across  was  the  late  Honourable  Robert  Grimston,  familiarly 
known  as  "  Bob  "  Grimston.  He  was  a  contemporary  of 
John  Ruskin  at  Oxford.  "  I  remember  when  I  was  at 
Christ  Church,"  writes  the  great  art  critic,  "  Grimston 
attended  the  same  lectures  as  myself.  He  was  a  man  of 
herculean  strength,  whose  love  of  dogs  and  horses,  and 
especially  of  boxing,  was  stupendous."  As  a  boy  he  had 
taken  lessons  from  the  famous  John  Jackson,  and  as  a 
young  man  he  was  a  pupil  both  of  Tom  Spring  and  Jem 
Ward.  I  have  often  heard  Jem  relate  anecdotes  of  "  The 
Honorable  Bob's"  contempt  for  hard  knocks.  If  Jem  were 
a  little  slack  in  hitting,  Grimston  would  cry  out :  "  Look 
here,  Ward,  none  of  your  gammon ;  come  at  me  as  if  you 
were  fighting  for  the  Championship ;  I  like  being  hit." 
An  undergraduate  who  was  once  having  a  spar  with  him 
remarked :  "  It's  all  very  well  for  you,  Bob,  for  your  head 
is  like  a  rhinoceros's."  "  Of  course  it  is,"  was  the  reply, 
"  because  I  have  boxed  from  boyhood  ;  and  if  you  go  on 
long  enough  your  head  will  be  like  a  rhinoceros's,  which 
will  be  a  comfort  to  you  for  life."  Another  time,  when 
doubled  up  by  a  body  blow  which  rendered  him  speechless 
for  some  minutes,  there  was  a  roar  among  the  spectators, 
his  partisans  declaring  it  was  a  foul.  Up  rose  Grimston 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  back  his  breath,  and  spluttered  out : 


NOBLE   ART   OF   SELF-DEFENCE    251 

"  What  infernal  nonsense  you  are  talking  !  It  was  a  per- 
fectly fair  hit — all  my  own  fault  for  not  having  stopped  it." 
He  was  a  generous  patron  of  the  Prize  Ring,  "  I  think," 
he  once  said  in  public,  "  that  boxing  is  a  noble  and  manly 
sport,  and  I  believe  in  the  Ring  as  a  necessary  evil,  as  it  is 
horrible  to  see  a  man  tried  for  murder  for  sticking  a  knife 
into  another  in  a  quarrel  which  should  have  ended  in  a 
couple  of  black  eyes  and  a  shake  of  the  hand.  I  used  to 
like  to  see  a  fight  between  a  couple  of  clever  light-weights 
who  could  spar  well  and  who  would  not  be  asked  to  go  on 
when  one  was  evidently  beaten  ;  for  it  was  cruel  to  let  two 
game  fellows  hammer  one  another  to  pieces  for  the  bets." 
Those  are  sensible  and  weighty  words  from  one  of  the 
finest  and  manliest  characters  of  his  time.  He  was  the 
very  soul  of  honour  and  chivalry  in  public  and  in  private 
life,  and  no  truer  sportsman  than  "  Bob "  Grimston  ever 
threw  leg  over  saddle,  handled  a  cricket-bat,  or  donned  a 
boxing-glove. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

CHAMPIONS  I   HAVE  KNOWN 

The  portrait  of  the  Game  Chicken  which  Dickens  has 
given  in  Douibey  and  Son — "  a  stoical  gentleman  in  a 
shaggy  white  greatcoat  and  flat-brimmed  hat,  with  very- 
short  hair,  a  broken  nose,  and  a  considerable  tract  of  bare 
and  sterile  country  behind  each  ear" — has  probably  been 
accepted  by  thousands  as  a  true  presentment  of  the  typical 
"  P'Jg-"  N<^  doubt  such  a  type  existed,  but  that  all  prize- 
fighters have  been  of  that  type  I  unhesitatingly  deny. 
Young  Reid,  for  example,  who  taught  half  the  aristocracy 
and  at  least  two  future  archbishops  to  spar  in  the  mid- 
Victorian  era,  was  a  good-looking,  trimly  built  man,  always 
dressed  in  perfect  taste,  who  might  have  passed  for  a 
professional  man.  And  many  celebrated  pugilists  were 
really  handsome  men,  with  pleasant  faces  and  good 
manners — the  very  antipodes  of  Dickens's  Game  Chicken. 
Some  of  them,  too,  were  excellent  company :  Jem  Burn, 
Owen  Swift,  and  Peter  Crawley  were  of  this  stamp. 

Johnny  Broome  was  a  particularly  clever  and  well- 
informed  man,  with  remarkable  talents  as  a  mechanic, 
though  his  moral  character  was  not  quite  that  of  "  a  plaster 
saint."  Tom  Spring  was  one  of  Nature's  gentlemen  in 
every  respect,  and  I  particularly  resented  Hall  Caine's 
gratuitous  and  stupid  slander  on  his  character  in  The 
Manxman,  where  he  is  alluded  to  as  having  fought  "  a 
cross."  Mr  Hall  Caine  knows  as  much  about  the  Prize  Ring 
as  he  does  about  the  Turf — that  is  to  say,  absolutely 
nothing.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  George  Borrow's 
face  if  the  novelist  had  dared  to  make  such  an  insinuation 
against    "  the   unvanquishable   and    incorruptible "   in   his 

252 


CHAMPIONS    I    HAVE    KNOAVN     253 

presence.  He  would  have  taken  Mr  Hall  Caine  up  with 
one  hand  and  shaken  him  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat. 

Bendigo,  before  the  revivalists  got  hold  of  him,  and  even 
after  that  during  his  periodical  lapses  from  grace,  was 
capital  company,  full  of  quaint  lore,  an  enthusiastic 
gardener,  too,  and  one  of  the  best  fishermen  that  even 
Nottingham,  famed  for  its  anglers  since  Izaak  Walton's 
days,  ever  produced. 

Jem  Ward,  whom  I  was  proud  to  call  a  friend,  was  an 
artist  and  musician  as  well  as  pugilist,  and  could  make 
himself  at  home  in  the  society  of  ladies,  which  is  more 
than  I  can  say  for  any  other  prize-fighter  I  have  known. 

Tom  King,  the  conqueror  of  Heenan,  was  in  his  later 
days  a  model  of  respectability.  Roses  were  his  hobby.  He 
would  yarn  about  them  by  the  hour — not  even  Dean  Hole 
himself  was  a  greater  enthusiast.  I  used  to  meet  him 
frequently  at  the  Crystal  Palace  Rose  Show,  and  it  was 
hard  to  imagine  that  the  tall,  grey-bearded  gentleman  in 
silk  hat,  frock-coat,  and  straw-coloured  gloves  was  the 
magnificent  athlete  whom  I  saw  stripped  to  fight  the 
gigantic  and  herculean  Heenan.  Tom  would  talk  freely 
about  roses,  but  if  you  attempted  to  draw  him  on  the 
Prize  Ring  he  dried  up  at  once.  And  yet  it  was  his 
victory  over  the  Benicia  Boy  and  the  winning  of  that 
;^2000  prize  that  gave  him  the  means  of  starting  as  a 
bookmaker  and  making  the  handsome  fortune  which  he 
subsequently  amassed.  He  died  worth  upwards  of 
;^50,ooo. 

Tom  Sayers,  outside  his  profession,  was  not  a  very 
interesting  person.  He  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and 
his  information  about  things  in  general  was  ludicrously 
defective.  Yet  no  one  who  studied  Tom's  face,  as  I  have 
done,  whilst  one  of  his  pals  was  reading  to  him  an  account 
of  a  prize-fight  from  BeWs  Life,  could  doubt  that  he  had 
plenty  of  intelligence.  To  see  him  in  the  ring  was  to 
realise  that  the  man  was  a  genius  in  his  line.  His  coolness, 
the  quickness  with  which  he  seized  an  opportunity,  his 
instinctive  knowledge  of  the  right  thing  to  do  at  the  right 
moment,  his  strategy,  his  perfect  control — all  these  qualities 
showed  a  brain  directing  the  motions  of  the  body. 


254  SPORTING   STORIES 

The  only  pugilist  whose  popularity  can  compare  with  that 
of  Tom  Sayers  is  Tom  Cribb,  who  twice  beat  Molineux 
the  Black  for  the  Championship  of  England.  But  then 
Cribb  won  his  fame  in  the  days  when  the  Prize  Ring 
was  a  national  institution,  openly  supported,  not  only 
by  the  nobility  and  gentry,  but  by  Royalty  itself. 
Sayers,  on  the  other  hand,  gained  his  celebrity  and 
popularity  at  a  time  when  the  Prize  Ring  was  a  dis- 
credited and  disreputable  institution,  which  the  law 
suppressed  whenever  it  could,  and  from  which  decent 
folks  mostly  kept  aloof,  disgusted  at  the  blackguardism 
with  which  it  was  associated.  Yet  wherever  you  went 
there  was  no  topic  discussed  with  such  interest  as  the 
great  fight  between  Sayers  and  Heenan.  And  I  think 
the  fact  that  a  professional  prize-fighter,  in  the  then  state 
of  public  opinion,  should  have  attracted  such  attention  and 
won  such  universal  popularity  is  an  extraordinary  tribute 
to  the  character  of  Thomas  Sayers. 

The  scenes  in  London  on  the  eve  of  that  memorable 
battle  have  seldom  been  paralleled.  Every  sporting  house 
was  packed  with  crowds  of  people  eager  to  obtain  the 
"  office "  for  the  morrow's  rendezvous.  All  night  the 
streets  were  seething  with  excitement.  Thousands  of 
persons  never  went  to  bed,  and  London  Bridge  Station 
at  dawn  on  the  morning  of  17th  April  i860  presented 
a  spectacle  such  as  one  sees  nowadays  at  Waterloo  on 
Derby  day. 

Heenan,  the  Benicia  Boy,  was  in  the  prime  of  his  early 
manhood.  His  deep  chest,  his  powerful  shoulders,  his 
broad  back  and  extraordinarily  long  arms,  were  points  that 
impressed  themselves  upon  one  at  the  first  glance.  A 
closer  scrutiny  showed  that  he  was  trained  to  the  hour. 
You  could  count  the  ribs,  which  stood  out  like  those  of  a 
greyhound  at  Altcar,  and  beneath  the  clear  white  satiny  skin 
you  could  see  the  bands  of  sinew  and  the  knots  of  muscle 
moving  like  strips  of  ivory.  His  height  was  6  ft.  2  ins.,  his 
weight  13  st.  8  lbs.     His  age  was  27  all  but  a  fortnight. 

Against  this  colossal  mass  of  muscle  was  pitted  a  man 
who  looked  like  a  pigmy  by  comparison  ;  for  Tom  Sayers 
stood  but  5  ft.  8^  ins.  and  scaled  only  10  st.  9  lbs.     In  age, 


CHAMPIONS    I    HAVE    KNOWN     255 

too,  the  Englishman  was  at  a  disadvantage,  for  he  was  34 
(within  five  weeks) — a  time  of  life  when  prize-fighters  have 
usually  been  considered  stale  and  past  their  prime.  But 
there  was  no  sign  of  staleness  about  Tom  Sayers  as  he 
stood  up  that  morning,  confident  and  smiling,  on  the  turf  at 
Farnborough. 

He  was  as  brown  as  a  gipsy,  and  looked  all  the  darker 
by  contrast  with  Heenan's  white  skin.  His  arms,  though 
well  shaped,  had  very  little  show  of  muscle,  and  his  chest 
was  not  remarkable ;  but  his  neck  was  massive  as  a  bull's, 
and  the  exceptionally  broad  shoulders  were  very  firmly 
knit  where  they  joined  the  collar-bone.  It  was  in  his  lower 
extremities,  however,  that  Tom  showed  superiority  over 
his  huge  antagonist.  His  loins  and  legs  were  more  com- 
pact than  those  of  the  towering  Yankee,  and  suggested  far 
greater  spring  and  activity. 

But  Sayers  had  one  great  advantage  in  the  confidence 
begotten  of  a  long  series  of  victories.  He  had  fought  and 
beaten  men  almost  as  big  and  formidable  as  Heenan, 
whilst  the  Benicia  Boy  was  but  a  novice,  who  had  fought 
only  one  regular  ring-fight,  and  had  been  beaten  in  that. 
He  was  now  called  upon  to  fight  the  most  celebrated 
pugilist  in  the  world  before  a  crowd  of  strangers,  three- 
fourths  of  whom  were  prejudiced  against  him  as  a  foreigner. 
The  combatants,  therefore,  were  not  so  ill-matched  as  the 
difference  in  their  physique  would  indicate — indeed,  I  am 
disposed  to  think  that  the  advantage  lay  with  Sayers.  He 
was  the  hero  of  fifteen  public  battles,  all  but  one  of  which 
he  had  won,  and  he  was  a  far  cleverer  and  more  resourceful 
fighter  than  Heenan  ;  he  had  every  trick  at  his  fingers' 
ends  ;  and  above  all,  he  was  the  popular  favourite,  and 
he  knew  it. 

Surely  these  points  more  than  compensated  for  the 
Benicia  Boy's  superior  size  and  strength.  With  both 
hands  available,  Sayers  ought  to  have  licked  the  Yankee 
without  much  difficulty,  and  probably  would  have  done  so. 
For  my  part,  I  should  not  have  classed  his  victory  under 
such  circumstances  as  by  any  means  the  most  brilliant  or 
creditable  in  his  career.  But  what  no  one  can  help 
admiring  was  Tom's  dogged  pluck  in  fighting  round  after 


256  SPORTING   STORIES 

round  with  his  right  arm   disabled  and  causing  him    the 
acutest  pain. 

It  was  in  stopping  a  tremendous  blow  of  Heenan's  in  the 
sixth  round  that  his  right  arm — "the  auctioneer,"  as  he 
always  called  it — was  so  seriously  injured  as  to  be  of  very 
little  further  use  to  him.  That  was  the  critical  moment  ol 
the  battle.  Sayers,  with  an  ugly  bruise  on  his  cheek-bone 
and  a  ragged  cut  over  his  right  eyebrow,  came  up  to  fight 
one  of  the  most  sensational  rounds  ever  seen  in  the  Ring. 
Tom  was  very  wily:  he  skipped  away  from  Heenan's  futile 
lunges,  and  danced  about  him,  reminding  many  of  the 
antics  by  which  he  bewildered  the  Tipton  Slasher.  The 
Benicia  Boy  lost  his  temper,  and  let  drive  his  left  at  Tom's 
head — an  awful  hit,  had  it  gone  home — but  Sayers  guarded, 
sprang  in  before  the  American  could  recover  himself,  and 
gave  him  a  terrific  smash  in  the  eye,  splitting  the  cheek 
and  sending  his  huge  antagonist  reeling  back  into  his 
corner. 

Heenan,  when  he  recovered  his  balance,  stood  like  a  man 
dazed,  and  in  a  few  seconds  could  hardly  be  recognised  as 
the  same  man,  so  swollen  and  disfigured  were  his  features. 
He  never  quite  recovered  from  that  astonishing  blow.  If 
Tom  could  hit  thus  with  his  left,  he  doubtless  wondered 
what  "  the  auctioneer  "  was  like.  For  the  "  Boy  "  was  not 
at  all  sure  that  he  had  disabled  Tom's  dexter  fin,  and  was 
in  momentary  expectation  of  having  it  driven  like  a  sledge- 
hammer into  his  contused  and  lacerated  visage. 

Everyone  knows  that  the  great  battle  of  Farnborough 
ended  in  a  draw,  after  two  hours  and  twenty  minutes  of 
most  determined  fighting,  and  to  this  day  it  is  a  disputed 
question  which  man  had  the  best  of  it  at  the  finish.  What 
really  happened  at  the  end  I  suppose  no  one  knew  for 
certain.  All  that  anybody  could  swear  to  was  that 
Heenan,  almost  blind,  caught  Sayers  round  the  neck, 
dragged  him  to  the  ropes,  and  deliberately  tried  to  strangle 
him  there.  The  ropes  were  cut,  and  several  so-called 
rounds  were  scrambled  through  somehow  in  the  midst  of  a 
howling  horde  of  ruffians,  with  no  umpire  or  referee  to  see 
fair  play.  One  thing,  however,  may  be  positively  asserted, 
and  that  is  that  Heenan  did  not  win  the  fisrht.     Whether 


CHAMPIONS    I   HAVE    KNOWN     257 

he  would  have  won  had  the  battle  been  fought  to  a  finish 
is  a  matter  of  pure  speculation.  Tom  was  very  tired,  his 
right  arm  was  giving  him  great  pain,  and  it  is  possible  that 
Heenan  might  have  knocked  him  out.  On  the  other 
hand,  Sayers  was  perfectly  cool,  could  see  clearly  with 
both  eyes,  knew  how  to  get  safely  down  when  necessary, 
and  was  well  aware  that  another  tap  or  two  would  leave 
Heenan  as  hopelessly  blind  as  Tom  himself  was  in  his  fight 
with  Langham.  Sayers's  admirers  point  to  Heenan's  defeat 
by  Tom  King,  and  say  that  there  you  have  proof  how 
grossly  the  Benicia  Boy  was  overrated.  But  I  do  not 
think  that  the  King-Heenan  fight  throws  any  light  on  the 
probable  issue  of  the  Sayers-Heenan  had  it  been  fought 
to  a  finish.  The  Heenan  of  Wadhurst  and  the  Heenan 
of  Farnborough  were  two  very  different  men,  otherwise 
King  would  not  have  had  much  chance. 

Jem  Mace,  the  last  of  the  old  prize-fighters,  was  my  tutor 
in  the  noble  art  five-and-forty  years  ago,  and  in  his  prime 
was  the  most  finished  boxer  I  ever  saw  in  the  Prize  Ring. 
Indeed,  among  the  Champions  of  England,  of  whom  he 
was  the  last,  there  was  not  his  superior  in  science  and  ring- 
craft.  Like  Tom  Sayers  he  was  good-tempered  and  averse 
from  quarrels,  and  I  never  heard  of  his  abusing  his  fighting 
skill  by  assaulting  anyone,  even  under  gross  provocation.  I 
remember  once  travelling  from  Leicester  with  the  late 
Rector  of  Ashby-de-la-Zouche,  Canon  Denton,  when  Jem 
Mace,  remarkably  well  dressed  and  smart,  entered  our 
carriage.  It  was  just  after  the  '  Varsity  boat-race,  and  the 
conversation  turned  on  the  training  of  the  crews.  Jem 
delivered  himself  of  some  very  sensible  remarks  on  that 
and  kindred  topics,  and  talked  most  agreeably.  When 
the  Canon  and  I  left  the  train  at  Ashby,  he  turned  to 
me  and  said : 

"  Your  friend  is  a  most  sensible  and  well-informed  man. 
May  I  ask  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  He  is  Jem  Mace,  the  Champion  of  England,"  I  replied. 

"  What ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  astonishment.  "  A  prize- 
fighter !  Nonsense !  Why,  he  might  pass  for  a  gentleman 
anywhere." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  I.     "  Nevertheless,  he  is  one  of  what 

17 


258  SPORTING   STORIES 

George  Borrow  calls  '  the  people  opprobriously  called  prize- 
fighters.' " 

"  He  must  be  a  remarkably  good  specimen  of  his  class, 
then  ;  he  is  a  man  whom  I  should  be  pleased  to  meet 
anywhere." 

And  with  the  opinion  of  my  reverend  friend  I  cordially 
concur. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

GUN  STORIES 

A  FEW  years  since  a  well-known  daily  paper  commenced 
a  furious  crusade  against  "  the  senseless  slaughter  of  game 
which  characterised  the  modern  battue  and  drive."  Un- 
fortunately, the  editor's  zeal  outran  his  discretion,  and, 
being  lamentably  ignorant  of  the  subject,  he  fell  into  a  trap, 
only  to  come  out  covered  with  ridicule.  A  correspondent 
sent  him  what  purported  to  be  an  account  of  a  great  grouse 
shoot  by  electric  light.  The  moors  were  lit  up,  and  the 
bewildered  birds,  only  half  awake,  flew  almost  into  the 
muzzles  of  the  guns  and  many  were  even  knocked  down 
with  sticks.  The  editor  published  the  extraordinary  state- 
ment without  inquiry,  with  some  scathing  comments  on 
"  this  so-called  sport."  Then  came  the  inevitable  exposure. 
He  was  compelled  to  own  that  he  had  been  made  the 
victim  of  a  humiliating  hoax  ;  his  ignorance  of  everything 
connected  with  shooting  was  exposed,  and  from  that 
moment  his  diatribes  ceased. 

In  one  of  his  novels  {Harry  Lorreqiier,  I  think)  Charles 
Lever  introduces  a  verdant  Englishman  who  has  crossed 
St  George's  Channel  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  wild  Irish.  Landing  at  night, 
he  is  taken  charge  of  by  one  of  the  hospitable  Burkes  or 
Blakes  of  County  Clare,  and  when  his  mission  has  been 
ascertained  is  told  more  about  the  Paddies  than  could  be 
found  in  any  guide-book.  By  the  help  of  powerful  doses 
of  potheen  he  is  kept  asleep  all  day,  and,  being  up  all  night, 
is  easily  made  to  believe  that  the  sun  is  only  seen  for  an 
hour  or  two  about  Christmas  each  year.  Among  the 
sports  arranged  for  his  benefit,  pheasant  shooting  entered 
largely,  at   which,  although  he  could    not  see  an  inch  in 

259 


260  SPORTING    STORIES 

front  of  his  nose,  the  Saxon  was  assured  he  was  wonderfully 
proficient.  But  a  fortnight  of  darkness  and  whisky  un- 
limited was  enough  for  the  stranger,  who,  although  pressed 
to  remain,  departed  saying  that  "though  Ireland  was  a 
lovely  country,  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  a  little  more 
light." 

Midnight  shooting  was  not  entirely  confined  to  Ireland,  for 
at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  twelfth  Lord 
Saye  and  Sele  provided  that  amusement  for  his  guests  on 
most  evenings  at  Belvedere  in  Kent.  After  supper,  Croker, 
his  head  keeper,  would  come  and  say,  "  My  lord,  the  game 
be  hall  ready."  "  All  right,  Croker  ;  come  and  have  a  glass 
of  wine,"  his  lordship  would  reply,  handing  him  a  tumbler 
of  port.  "Have  you  got  many  rabbits  for  us,  Croker?" 
"  Vy,  my  lord,  hi  netted  honly  two  dozen,  thinkin'  has  'ow 
it  wos  has  much  as  your  lordship  and  the  other  gemmen 
would  care  habout.  The  moon's  hall  right,  and  the  sooner 
we're  hat  work  the  better." 

The  plan  adopted  was  to  fasten  white  paper  collars 
round  the  rabbits'  necks  and  let  them  out,  one  at  a  time, 
from  a  trap.  The  guns  stood  round  in  a  semicircle,  and 
blazed  away  at  each  bunny  as  it  appeared  ;  yet  the  hits 
were  few.  On  the  occasion  I  refer  to  only  six  rabbits  were 
killed  out  of  the  two  dozen  ;  but  how  near  the  sportsmen 
were  to  shooting  one  another  may  be  gathered  from  what 
Croker  said  in  the  morning.  One  of  the  guests  was  con- 
gratulating the  keeper  on  the  sport,  when  the  latter  broke 
in  with,  "  Veil,  I  vos  never  so  thankful  to  see  his  lordship's 
friends  goin'  hall  right  to  their  beds  as  I  vos  last  night,  for 
some  of  you  gemmen — I  means  no  offence — vould  better 
'a  gone  there  afore  you  shot." 

As  a  rule,  the  old  sportsmen  were  very  careless  with 
their  guns,  and  the  wonder  is  that  the  casualties  were  so  few. 
Sir  James  Graham  of  Netherby  escaped  an  accident  by 
mere  chance.  The  conversation  one  day  turned  upon  guns, 
when  he  said,  "  Well,  I  have  used  my  Joe  Manton  regularly 
for  thirty  years,  and  it  carries  as  well  now  as  the  day  I  got 
it."  "  I  wonder,"  said  the  Duke  of  Abercorn,  "  it  has  not 
carried  your  arm  off  before  now  ;  let  me  see  the  wonderful 
gun."     The   Joe  Manton  was   produced,  and   the  muzzle 


GUN    STORIES  261 

was  as  thin  as  a  wafer.  "If  ever  you  put  an  extra  half- 
charge  of  powder  into  that,  Netherby,"  the  Duke  remarked, 
"  the  gun  will  burst."  This  Sir  James  would  not  admit,  so 
a  bet  was  made  between  them  to  decide  the  question.  The 
gun  was  carefully  loaded  with  a  charge  and  a  half  of 
powder,  placed  on  the  ground,  and  discharged  by  the  aid 
of  a  string.     It  burst. 

The  elder  Sir  James  was  a  very  little  man,  while  his  son 
was  a  splendid  fellow,  6  ft.  2  ins.  in  his  stockings,  and 
muscular  in  proportion.  One  day  the  two  were  together 
in  Pall  Mall,  and  an  old  friend  accosted  the  baronet,  when 
Sir  James  introduced  his  son  to  him.  "  Why,  Netherby," 
the  friend  said,  "  your  son  could  put  you  in  his  pocket." 
"  That  may  be,"  the  father  replied  ;  "  but  I  can  tell  you  he 
is  never  out  of  mine."  The  tall  young  man  afterwards 
became  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty. 

Sir  James  was  travelling  one  Sunday  with  George,  sixth 
Duke  of  Marlborough,  then  Marquis  of  Blandford,  from 
Glasgow  to  Lord  Galloway's  seat  in  Wigtownshire,  when 
their  servants,  as  the  carriage  was  passing  over  a  moor,  let 
two  pointers  down.  The  dogs  put  up  some  partridges,  and 
the  Marquis,  forgetting  he  was  in  Scotland,  seized  his  gun, 
jumped  out,  and  bagged  a  brace.  The  affair  got  wind,  and 
an  outcry  was  made  in  the  papers  of  how  the  son-in-law 
of  an  exemplary  Scotch  peer  (Lord  Galloway)  had  not 
only  been  shooting  on  the  Sabbath,  but  had  trespassed  as 
well.  At  Galloway  House  a  consultation  was  held  as  to 
what  was  best  to  be  done,  when  a  gentleman  said, 
"  Partridges  are  more  plentiful  than  marquises  here,  so  I 
should  advise  you  to  drive  over  to  Kerrachtree,  see  Lady 
Maxwell,  and  apologise."  The  Marquis  took  the  advice, 
receiving  not  only  complete  absolution,  but  carte  blanche  to 
shoot  over  the  estate  whenever  he  chose. 

Some  parsons,  however,  were  not  ashamed  to  indulge  in 
their  favourite  sport  on  the  Sabbath,  and  were  unscrupulous 
poachers  too.  The  Rev.  William  Butler,  Rector  of  Frampton 
in  Dorsetshire,  known  to  everyone  as  "  Billy  Butler,"  was 
a  divine  of  the  port- wine  school,  plus  an  inordinate  love  of 
sport,  which  he  gratified  without  scruple,  in  and  out  of 
season,  utterly    regardless   of    the    responsibilities   of  his 


262  SPORTING   STORIES 

cloth.  He  was  fond  of  telling  stories  of  his  defiance  of 
conventional  rules.  One  of  these  was  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  been  out  cub-hunting  one  Sunday  morning,  and  was 
only  able,  by  dint  of  hard  riding,  to  reach  the  church  just 
as  the  bell  had  stopped  ringing  for  service.  He  made  no 
secret,  either,  of  the  fact  that  Sunday  cocking  parties  were 
in  vogue  at  Frampton.  A  few  choice  spirits  would  meet 
at  the  rectory  after  service,  and  enjoy  a  quiet  main  without 
fear  of  interruption.  With  equal  zest,  too,  did  Parson 
Billy  tell  yarns  of  his  poaching  experiences.  For  instance, 
one  afternoon,  as  he  was  returning  from  hunting,  he  spied 
a  lot  of  pheasants  which  had  strayed  outside  their  owner's 
woods  and  were  feeding  in  front  of  a  long  hedgerow  on  a 
property  which  was  not  preserved.  Butler  here  saw  too  good 
a  chance  to  be  missed.  He  woke  up  his  nag  with  the  spur, 
and  on  reaching  home  ran  into  the  house,  got  his  gun  and 
a  steady-going  old  retriever,  and  rode  back  as  fast  as  his 
hunter  would  carry  him.  Getting  between  the  pheasants 
and  their  coverts,  he  drove  them  into  the  hedgerow  and 
killed  some  five  or  six  brace,  which  he  hung  on  each  side 
of  his  horse,  and  rode  coolly  home  again. 

Re  accidents  in  the  shooting-field,  the  father  of  the  late 
Marquis  of  Oueensberry  was  said  to  have  accidentally 
shot  himself  when  out  rabbit  shooting  in  1858  ;  and  Captain 
Speke,  the  African  explorer,  was  the  victim  of  a  gun 
accident  the  day  before  he  was  to  have  confronted  Captain 
Richard  Burton  in  public  to  explain  his  conduct  in  appro- 
priating to  himself  the  credit  which  Burton  alleged  to  be 
due  to  him.  Frederic  Gye,  the  well-known  manager  of  the 
Italian  Opera  at  Covent  Garden,  was  shot  dead  by  accident 
whilst  pheasant  shooting  with  Lord  Dillon  at  Dytchley  on 
the  same  day  on  which  Major  Whyte-Melville  was  killed 
out  hunting.  The  late  Professor  Fawcett  was  shot  by  his 
father  when  partridge  shooting.  Only  two  pellets  struck 
him,  but  they  penetrated  both  eyeballs,  and  left  him  stone- 
blind  for  life.  Mr  F.  P.  Delm^  Radcliffe  was  also  shot. 
When  out  with  a  shooting  party  on  his  own  estate  he  got 
somewhat  out  of  the  line,  and  received  the  contents  of 
one  of  his  guest's  guns  in  the  face.  He  fell  senseless,  but 
in  a  few  minutes  recovered  consciousness  and  exclaimed 


GUN   STORIES  263 

earnestly :  "  I  call  you  to  witness  it  was  my  own  fault." 
The  sight  of  his  left  eye  was  completely  destroyed,  but  his 
other  injuries  were  not  serious.  Even  after  the  loss  of  his 
eye,  Joe  Manton  the  famous  gun-maker  said  he  would  not 
advise  anyone  to  offer  Mr  Delme  Radcliffe  many  dead  birds 
in  a  pigeon  match. 

A  remarkable  recovery  from  a  terrible  gun  accident  was 
that  of  Mr  Thomas  Smith,  of  Hambledon,  a  Master  of 
Hounds  like  his  celebrated  namesake,  Thomas  Assheton 
Smith.  When  a  boy,  his  head  got  in  the  way  of  a  sports- 
man aiming  at  a  rabbit,  and  down  went  Tom,  apparently 
dead.  He  recovered,  however,  but  his  escape  was 
marvellous ;  for  a  full  charge  of  shot  was  taken  out  of  his 
head,  and  afterwards  shown  to  him  in  a  wine-glass. 

The  man  who  loses  his  temper  when  shooting  is  a 
person  to  be  avoided,  but  he  sometimes  causes  amusement. 
A  noble  lord  of  an  excitable  nature  was  once  rather  put 
out  because  he  had  so  little  sport,  and  sternly  asked  his 
head  keeper  if  they  would  find  more  birds  in  the  next 
covert.  "  I  hope  so,  my  lord,"  said  the  dependent.  "  Hope 
so  !  "  roared  the  peer  ;  "  do  you  think  I  give  you  a  hundred 
a  year  to  hope  ?  Go  and  beat  that  wood  this  way  and  I'll 
post  the  guns."  "  Your  lordship  means  this  wood,"  said  the 
functionary,  pointing   in   an   opposite  direction.      "  No,    I 

don't."    "  But,  my  lord "    "  Not  a  word  more,  sir.    Obey 

my  orders."  The  wood  was  beaten,  but  without  the  least 
result,  and  his  lordship's  wrath  was  terrible  until  the  keeper 
managed  to  get  out :  "  This  is  not  your  wood  at  all,  my 
lord  ;  it  belongs  to  your  neighbour,  who  shot  it  last  Friday!" 

There  are  times,  however,  when  it  is  difficult  for  a  man 
to  keep  his  temper  when  shooting,  and  even  so  true  a 
sportsman  as  George  Osbaldeston  could  not  always  pre- 
serve his  equanimity.  He  and  Captain  Horatio  Ross  were 
admitted  to  be  two  of  the  best  shots  of  their  day,  but  they 
both,  on  one  occasion,  gave  a  display  of  rascally  bad  shoot- 
ing which  was  particularly  mortifying  under  the  circum- 
stances. "  During  one  of  my  visits  to  Ebberston 
(Obaldeston's  Yorkshire  estate),"  says  Captain  Ross,  who 
tells  the  story,  "  we  were  shooting  the  covert  of  Hutton 
Bushell, '  the  Squire's '  best  beat  for  pheasants.     A  stranger 


264  SPORTING    STORIES 

joined  us,  and,  addressing  '  the  Squire,'  said  that  he  had 
heard  that  the  two  greatest  shots  in  England  were  present, 
and  that  he  had  come  some  distance  in  the  hope  of  being 
allowed  to  walk  a  short  time  with  us  and  see  '  the  cracks 
shoot.'  '  The  Squire '  was  most  civil,  and  begged  he  would 
take  a  spare  gun  he  had  out  and  shoot  with  us  ;  but  this  he 
declined.  Well,  a  minute  or  two  afterwards  a  cock-pheasant 
rose  between  '  the  Squire  '  and  myself,  not  four  yards  from 
either  of  us.  Quick  as  lightning,  '  bang '  went  '  the 
Squire' — MISSED! — and  'bang'  I  went — missed!  Bang 
again,  '  the  Squire ' — MISSED  ! !  '  Bang '  again,  myself — 
MISSED  ! ! !  And  away  went  the  pheasant — chuck,  chuck, 
chuck  !  The  gentleman  took  off  his  hat,  made  us  a  bow, 
and  said,  '  Thank  you ;  I  am  much  obliged  and  quite 
satisfied,'  and  away  he  went,  I  burst  out  laughing,  but 
'  the  Squire '  was  extremely  angry,  and  expressed  his  feel- 
ings very  forcibly." 

I  think  the  severest  test  of  a  man's  sportsmanship  is 
wild-fowl  shooting.  To  succeed  in  that  difficult  sport 
requires  an  amount  of  endurance,  patience,  and  hardihood, 
and  a  capacity  for  standing  exposure  and  fatigue,  which 
you  will  find  in  none  but  a  genuine  enthusiast.  But  to 
those  who  can  stand  the  hardships  it  entails,  wild-fowl 
shooting  is  the  finest  sport  these  islands  afford.  Colonel 
Peter  Hawker  is  generally  credited  with  being  the  Father 
of  Wild-fowling,  but  next  to  him  I  should  place  Sir  Ralph 
Payne-Gallwey.  Sir  Ralph's  bag  of  1500  duck  and  geese 
in  the  hard  winter  of  1880-81  has  never  been  approached, 
and  I  do  not  suppose  it  ever  will  be,  now  that  wild-fowl 
shooting  is  becoming  harder  to  obtain  every  year. 

Some  of  the  feats  performed  by  both  these  men  were 
stupendous.  Colonel  Hawker  once  bagged  100  brent- 
geese in  one  discharge  of  his  double-barrelled  swivel-gun  in 
the  Solent ;  and  Sir  Ralph  Payne-Gallwey  has  frequently 
killed  50  widgeon  at  a  shot,  and  sometimes  60  or  70.  This, 
of  course,  was  with  a  duck-gun  carrying  a  charge  of  2  lbs. 
of  shot.  The  biggest  bag  of  widgeon  that  ever  fell*to 
one  shot  was,  I  believe,  127.  But  at  least  300  geese  have 
fallen  to  a  single  volley  fired  by  signal  off  the  mouth  of  the 
Blackwater  in  Essex. 


GUN   STORIES  265 

Time  was  when  wild-fowl  shooting  was  a  lucrative 
occupation  along  the  southern  and  eastern  coasts  of 
England,  and  was  a  steady  source  of  income  to  the  pro- 
fessional shooter.  I  have  heard  of  one  professional  punter 
— that  is,  a  shooter  from  a  punt — not  what  the  term  implies 
in  racing  or  rowing  circles — who  cleared  ;^ioo  in  a  season, 
selling  the  wild-fowl  he  shot  at  an  average  price  of  two 
shillings  per  brace,  so  that  he  must  have  shot  something 
like  3000  head  in  five  months.  But  the  ubiquitous  amateur 
gunner  who  goes  popping  and  blazing  everywhere  with  no 
other  result  than  frightening  the  birds,  and  the  encroach- 
ments of  civilisation,  have  rendered  the  birds  so  shy  and 
scarce  that  the  poor  professional  wild-fowler  finds  his 
occupation  gone.  I  suppose  he  would  consider  himself  in 
most  cases  lucky  now  if  he  cleared  ;^20  in  a  season. 

Colonel  Hawker,  to  whom  I  have  already  referred,  was  a 
sportsman,  and  not  a  mere  slaughterer  of  game.  He  kept 
a  diary  of  every  day's  shooting  during  the  fifty  seasons  of 
his  career.  His  sum  total  for  the  whole  period  was  17,753 
head  of  all  kinds — including  7035  partridges,  575  pheasants, 
2ii6snipe,  4488  swans,  ducks,  and  geese,  1831  river-side  and 
seashore  birds,  and  the  rest  various.  He  was  content  with 
small  bags,  and  found  his  own  game  in  places  where  it  was 
by  no  means  plentiful.  How  deadly  a  shot  he  was  may  be 
gathered  from  the  fact  that  he  frequently  killed  14  or  15 
snipe  in  succession  without  a  miss,  and  seldom  failed  to 
account  for  18  out  of  every  20  partridges  he  fired  at. 
There  are  not  many  sportsmen  nowadays  who  can 
compare  with  him  either  in  moderation  or  skill — indeed, 
notwithstanding  the  increased  superiority  of  modern 
fowling-pieces,  I  do  not  see  that  the  shooting  of  to-day  is 
superior  to  that  of  old.  I  don't  think  I  could  point  out 
any  gunner  whom  it  would  be  safe  to  back  to  beat  Captain 
Horatio  Ross,  who  was  as  great  with  the  gun  as  with  the 
rifle.  In  the  month  of  July  1828,  Captain  Ross  was  on  his 
way  back  from  the  Red  House,  Battersea — where  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  and  the  Earl  of  Winchelsea  fought  their 
duel — in  company  with  General  Anson  and  Lord  de  Ros, 
and  Lord  de  Ros  remarked,  "  No  one  has  a  chance  with 
Captain  Ross  at  pigeons,  but  I  wonder  if  he  would  be  as 


266  SPORTING   STORIES 

good  with  partridges  ?  "  Captain  Ross  said  he  was  as  good 
at  partridges  as  at  pigeons,  and  as  Lord  de  Ros  expressed 
his  doubts  on  that  point,  a  match  was  made. 

Lord  de  Ros's  terms  were  that  Captain  Ross  should 
present  himself  on  the  first  day  of  the  following  November 
at  Mildenhall  in  Suffolk,  ready  to  shoot  partridges  against 
anyone  he  produced.  The  competitors  were  to  start  at 
sunrise,  no  dogs  were  to  be  used,  while  the  two  antagonists 
were  to  keep  in  line  about  fifty  yards  apart.  Each  was  to 
use  a  single-barrelled  gun,  that  they  should  load  them- 
selves, the  birds  need  not  be  picked  up,  but  if  a  partridge 
was  seen  by  the  umpires  to  fall  it  was  to  be  considered  a 
dead  bird.  The  stakes  were  ;^200  a  side,  and  bets  to  a 
large  amount  were  laid  by  the  friends  of  Captain  Ross  and 
the  Unknown. 

Captain  Ross,  when  he  arrived  at  Mildenhall,  found  that 
his  opponent  was  to  be  Colonel  Anson.  The  two  break- 
fasted by  candle-light  with  Lord  de  Ros  ;  and  before  day- 
break both  were  waiting  in  the  fields  for  the  signal  to  start. 
The  morning  was  foggy,  but,  taking  Greenwich  time  for  the 
sun's  appearance,  they  started  without  him,  just  as  if  he 
had  been  a  traveller  late  for  a  train.  Colonel  Anson,  then 
in  his  thirty-second  year  and  a  fast  walker,  went  off  at  a 
rapid  pace,  hoping  to  break  Ross  down  by  out-walking  him  ; 
but  the  Captain  was  rather  glad  to  see  his  opponent 
forcing  the  running,  as  he  was  himself  in  splendid 
condition,  and  well  able  to  keep  going  at  his  best  speed 
for  fourteen  or  sixteen  hours. 

For  some  time  after  the  start  Colonel  Anson  had  much 
the  best  of  it,  and  at  two  o'clock  was  seven  birds  ahead. 
Shortly  afterwards  Squire  Osbaldeston,  who  had  guessed 
that  Ross  was  playing  a  waiting  game,  and  had  backed 
him  heavily,  rode  up  and  said,  "  Now  go  along,  Ross,  as 
hard  as  you  can — he  will  lie  down  "  ;  and,  acting  upon  this 
advice,  Ross  at  once  put  on  steam,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  sunset  Mr  Charles  Greville  rode  up  to  him  to 
propose  that  the  match  should  be  drawn,  for  although 
Colonel  Anson  was  one  bird  ahead,  he  was  so  done  up  that 
he  could  not  walk  any  farther. 

"  I  had  about  a  thousand  pounds  depending  upon  the 


GUN    STORIES  267 

issue,"  says  the  Captain,  "  and  had  not  had  a  shot  for  ten 
minutes,  so  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  at  that  late  hour 
when  the  birds  were  all  out  of  the  turnips  and  feeding  on 
the  stubble,  it  was  too  much  to  risk  on  the  chance  of  getting 
a  brace  of  birds  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  therefore  I  agreed 
to  the  proposition,  I  was  as  fresh  as  when  I  started,  and 
offered  to  walk  to  London  there  and  then  against  anyone 
for  ;!^50o" — an  offer  no  one  present  cared  to  accept. 

Well,  then,  there  was  the  immortal  "Old  Squire,"  who 
excelled  in  every  sport  in  which  he  took  part.  Sir  Richard 
Sutton  told  my  old  friend  Henry  Marshall,  of  the  Morning 
Post,  that  he  had  seen  the  Squire  kill  98  pheasants  out  of 
100  shots;  and  in  one  day,  at  Ebberston,  his  own  place, 
he  bagged  95  brace  of  partridges,  9  brace  of  hares,  and 
5  couples  of  rabbits — all  to  his  own  gun,  with  only  an 
attendant  carrying  a  second  gun. 

Mr  Budd  once  backed  the  "Old  Squire"  to  kill  80 
brace  of  partridges  in  one  day.  "  I  handed  him  the  gun," 
says  Mr  Budd,  "  for  every  shot.  He  killed  97I  brace,  and 
5 1  brace  were  picked  up  next  day,  so  that  he  really  killed 
103  brace  of  partridges,  9  hares,  and  a  rabbit  in  the  day. 

I  have  already  told  one  story  of  Captain  Ross.  Here 
is  another.  There  was  a  certain  squire  who  was  noted  in 
the  mid-Victorian  days  for  his  stinginess  and  the  strictness 
with  which  he  preserved  his  game,  seldom  inviting  even 
his  most  intimate  friends  for  a  day's  shooting.  This 
niggardly  pheasant-breeder  was  dining  at  a  neighbour's 
one  evening,  and  was  introduced  to  a  stranger  who  made 
himself  exceedingly  agreeable  and,  though  he  had  an 
effeminate  and  dandified  air,  contrived  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  the  crusty  old  squire.  Presently  the  talk  turned  upon 
shooting,  "  By  Jove  ! "  drawled  the  young  swell,  with  the 
affected  lisp  of  the  period,  "  I  am  very  fond  of  a  day 
with  the  gun,  though,  by  Jove,  I  hardly  ever  hit  anything. 
Don't  think  I  ever  killed  anything  I  aimed  at  in  my  life, 
you  know." 

The  squire  was  rather  amused  with  the  stranger,  and, 
thinking  it  a  good  opportunity  to  be  generous  on  the  cheap, 
invited  him  to  have  a  day's  sport.  So  it  was  agreed  that 
"  Mr  Pelham  " — such  was  his  name — should  visit  the  squire 


268  SPORTING   STORIES 

the  next  morning,  and  accompany  his  host  to  the  coverts. 
The  morning  came,  and  with  it  the  guest,  not  in  the 
customary  garb,  but  in  a  sort  of  dress  suit,  with  shoes  and 
silk  stockings.  The  squire  eyed  him  with  contempt, 
summed  him  up  as  being  no  sportsman,  and,  feeling  sure 
that  his  pheasants  were  quite  safe,  made  some  excuse  for 
not  accompanying  him.  So  off  went  "  Mr  Pelham  "  with 
the  keeper,  whilst  the  squire,  shaking  with  merriment, 
watched  them  from  a  window.  About  an  hour  later,  a 
keeper  rushed  in  out  of  breath. 

"  Beg  pardon  sir, — but  that  gentleman  in  the  dancing- 
shoes  and " 

"  It's  all  right,  William,"  interrupted  his  master  com- 
placently. "  He  will  only  frighten  the  birds  ;  he  never  shot 
anything  in  his  life." 

"  Then  he's  begun  with  a  vengeance,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  squire,  starting  up. 

"  Why,  he's  bringin'  of  'em  down  right  and  left,  never 
misses,  and  he's  killed  Lord  knows  how  many  already  !  " 

"  What !  "  screamed  the  squire,  "  The  devil  he  has.  I 
must  see  to  this." 

And,  waiting  to  hear  no  more,  he  flew  hatless  to  the 
coverts,  directed  by  the  incessant  report  of  the  gun. 
When  he  came  up  he  found  that  the  dandy  who  "  never 
hit  anything,  by  Jove,"  had  already  bagged  five  hares  and 
thirty  pheasants. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this,  sir  ?  "  demanded  the  squire, 
white  with  passion.  "  I  thought  you  told  me  you  never 
killed  anything." 

"  Did  I  ?  "  said  the  dandy  coolly,  bringing  down  a  cock 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Stop,  sir,  this  is  not  sport ;  it's  murder ! "  cried  the 
agonised  preserver.  But  the  other  calmly  dropped  another 
bird  with  his  second  barrel. 

"  Stop,  I  say.     Who  and  what  the  devil  are  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  Captain  Ross,  at  your  service,"  answered  the  dandy, 
with  a  low  bow.  "  Don't  be  annoyed,  my  dear  sir :  it  is 
only  to  decide  a  little  bet  that  I  would  get  a  day's  shooting 
out  of  you.  There  is  no  harm  done.  Keep  your  game ; 
you  can  sell  it  to  the  poulterer.     Good  morning." 


GUN    STORIES  269 

And,  taking  off  his  hat,  "  Mr  Pelham  "  turned  upon  his 
heel,  leaving  the  stingy  old  squire  speechless  with  rage 
and  mortification. 

Of  Captain  Ross's  skill  as  a  marksman,  both  with  rifle 
and  pistol,  there  are  many  extraordinary  stories,  but 
perhaps  none  more  notable  than  the  following,  related 
by  an  eye-witness  in  the  year  1835: — 

"  I  saw  him,"  he  says,  "  hit  a  black  wafer  fixed  on  the 
back  of  a  card  150  times;  he  only  missed  the  card  twice 
out  of  300  shots  at  14  yards.  Calling  on  Captain  Ross 
one  morning,  I  found  him  practising.  He  then  presented 
his  pistol  out  of  the  drawing-room  window  and  said,  '  Now 
you  shall  see  me  take  the  head  off  the  figure  on  Barry 
Smith's  house.'  This  was  a  small  gilt  figure  of  Hope, 
about  five  inches  in  length,  placed  between  the  windows  to 
show  that  the  house  was  insured  in  the  Hope  Insurance 
Office.  He  lodged  the  ball  in  the  left  breast.  '  That 
won't  do,'  said  he  ;  '  I  must  have  the  head  off.'  He  fired 
again,  and  shot  off  the  head.  The  distance  across  the 
street  was  certainly  not  less  than  15  yards,  and  Barry 
Smith  and  a  friend  were  sitting  about  three  yards  from 
the  figure.  They  showed  no  alarm  on  ascertaining 
whence  the  shots  proceeded,  but  took  their  seats  again 
quietly  after  the  first  one. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

DOG  STORIES 

There  are  still  some  sportsmen  who  will  agree  with  me, 
that  shooting  over  well-broken  dogs  is  the  most  enjoyable 
form  of  the  sport.  In  a  letter  of  the  late  Mr  John  Tharp 
Phillipson,  a  very  fine  shot,  he  says :  '  I  can  take  out  a  brace 
and  a  half  of  my  white  setters,  which  I  break  myself,  with 
a  retriever;  they  find,  and  I  kill — not  a  dog  moves  till 
ordered.  I  tell  one  to  fetch  the  bird,  and  the  others  remain 
down.  The  advantage  of  the  white  setters  over  the  dark- 
coloured  dogs  is  that  you  rarely  lose  them  :  you  can  see 
the  white  at  any  distance." 

George  Osbaldeston  had  a  brace  of  pointers,  Mark  and 
Flirt,  for  which  he  refused  ^200 — a  big  price  in  those  days. 
They  were  so  good  that  the  squire  offered  to  back  him- 
self and  the  brace  of  dogs  for  ;^io,ooo  against  any  man 
and  brace  of  dogs  in  the  kingdom.  He  used  to  tell  a  story 
of  Mark's  staunchness: — "One  day  he  made  a  point.  I 
watched  him  for  ten  minutes  or  more,  and  could  see  a  fly 
on  his  nose,  but  though  his  foot  was  up  and  near  the  fly 
he  never  offered  to  brush  it  off.  On  walking  up  and 
flushing  the  game,  I  found  the  fly  had  stung  the  dog, 
leaving  a  lump  of  congealed  blood  on  his  nose." 

Not  content  with  orthodox  shooting-dogs,  "  the  Squire  " 
trained  a  bull-dog  to  retrieve  so  well  that  his  only  fault 
was  that,  from  the  shortness  of  his  legs,  he  used  to  tread 
the  pheasants'  tails  out  as  he  carried  them  in  his  mouth. 
Sir  John  Sebright  trained  a  pig  to  point,  and  a  Newfound- 
land to  play  cards.  But  Sir  John's  pig  had  a  rival;  for 
Mr  Toomer,  a  New  Forest  gamekeeper,  had  a  pig  which 
would  not  only  beat  for  game,  but  stand  and  back  as 
staunchly  as  the  best-bred  pointer  dog. 

270 


DOG   STORIES  271 

There  is  a  story,  too,  of  a  pony  who  would  point ;  but 
there  was  a  trick  about  this.  A  horse-dealer  had  a  pony 
which  he  was  anxious  to  sell  to  a  sporting  squire.  He 
said  that  the  pony  would  find  a  hare  and  stand  it  as 
staunchly  as  any  pointer  in  the  squire's  kennels.  Riding 
to  a  place  where  hares  abounded,  the  dealer  soon  spied 
one.  Knowing  that  a  dig  of  the  spur  would  instantly 
bring  his  pony  to  a  dead  stop,  a  sharp  dig  was  given 
and  an  equally  sharp  pull-up  resulted.  "  A  hare  some- 
where," said  the  dealer,  and  a  moment  later  up  got 
puss.  The  simple-minded  squire  at  once  agreed  to  buy 
the  pony,  and  mounted  his  new  purchase.  In  crossing 
a  bridge  he  applied  his  spur,  as  the  pony  hung  a  bit  at 
a  little  rise.  Instantly  the  pony  stopped  and  "pointed." 
"  Here,  I  say,  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  exclaimed  the  squire 
testily.  "  Why,  by  Jove !  he's  stood  a  trout,"  cried  the 
dealer ;  "  if  I'd  knowed  he'd  stand  trout  I  wouldn't  ha' 
sold  him  for  double  the  money." 

An  old  sportsman  named  John  Parsons,  having  lost 
the  use  of  his  legs  and  being  passionately  fond  of  shooting, 
drove  about  the  fields  in  a  light  gig  drawn  by  a  donkey, 
which  he  declared  would  find  a  hare  and  stand  like  a 
pointer.  And  I  believe  the  late  Mr  E.  H.  Budd,  the 
cricketer,  was  one  of  those  who  tested  his  declaration 
and  found  it  true. 

Some  thirty  years  ago  I  saw  a  wonderful  feat  of  retrieving 
performed  by  a  spaniel  bitch  at  Rugby  on  a  pitch-dark 
night.  A  penny  piece  was  thrown  well  into  a  field  of 
standing  corn ;  the  spaniel  was  ordered  to  fetch  it,  and 
fetch  it  she  did  in  an  extraordinary  short  time.  In  order 
to  bother  her,  her  owner  would  pretend  to  throw  the  penny 
in  one  direction,  and,  directly  the  bitch  darted  forward, 
would  send  it  flying  in  the  other.  But  she  was  too  sharp 
for  that,  and  always  brought  back  the  penny.  She  would 
fetch  her  master's  slippers  from  the  cupboard  at  night,  and 
in  order  to  save  a  second  journey  used  to  push  one  slipper 
into  the  other. 

A  man  named  Douglas  had  a  bitch  who,  when  her  master 
was  out  shooting  one  day,  to  his  great  surprise  brought  his 
watch  and  laid  it  at  his  feet.     He   had  no  idea   that   he 


272  SPORTING   STORIES 

had  lost  the  watch,  but  imagined  that  it  must  have  been 
pulled  from  his  pocket  in  getting  through  a  hedge  some 
distance  back. 

Mr  Budd  tells  the  following  anecdote : — "  When  the 
Regent's  Park  was  pasture-land  and  had  on  it  but  one 
house,  Willan,  the  occupant,  kept  his  thousand  cows  there. 
I  was  in  the  hay-field  with  a  friend  named  Powell,  son  of 
the  equerry  to  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  who  said  I  might  hide 
his  glove  anywhere  in  the  field  and  the  retriever  he  had 
with  him  would  find  it.  The  owner  held  the  dog's  head 
pointed  away  from  the  direction  I  took.  I  pushed  the 
glove  right  under  a  large  summer-rick  ;  but  the  dog  quickly 
found  it. " 

Many  years  ago  there  was  in  England  a  French  Count 
named  Peltier,  who  was  one  of  the  most  amusing  of  com- 
panions, and  naturally  was  well  received  everywhere  among 
sportsman.  The  late  Lord  Seagrave  met  the  Count  in  the 
High  Street,  Cheltenham,  just  by  the  Plough  Hotel,  with  a 
splendid  setter  at  his  heels,  and,  with  a  view  perhaps  to 
purchase,  inquired  if  he  was  well  broken  to  game.  "  Ah  !  " 
was  the  Count's  reply,  "  superb !  When  he  do  hear  the 
raport  of  de  gun  he  fairly  runs  quite  mad  ! "  The  Earl 
expressed  no  wish  to  buy  that  dog. 

"  Nimrod  "  (C.  J.  Apperley)  speaks  of  a  favourite  setter 
over  whom  six  shots  were  fired  in  a  field  of  potatoes,  and 
he  never  stirred  from  his  point,  which  proved  to  be  a  single 
bird.  Mr  Britton,  of  Oldbury  Hall,  Atherstone,  at  once 
offered  25  guineas  for  the  dog,  which  was  refused ;  and 
"  Nimrod "  shot  over  him  for  seven  years  more.  This 
setter's  one  failing  was  a  partiality  for  butter,  and  when 
passing  a  house  about  breakfast  time  he  would  sneak  in 
and  snatch  the  butter  off  the  table. 

One  of  the  most  ludicrous  and  at  the  same  time  fearsome 
dog  stories  was  told  me  by  an  old  friend  who  held  a  posi- . 
tion  at  the  dynamite  works  in  Ayrshire.  A  local  sports- 
man was  out  rabbit  shooting  in  the  neighbourhood  of  these 
works  when  a  party  of  scientific  experts  were  experiment- 
ing with  the  explosive  by  casting  charges,  enclosed  in 
water-tight  cases  with  time-fuses  attached,  into  the  stream 
immortalised  by  Robbie  Burns.     Forgetting  all  about  the 


DOG    STORIES  273 

rabbits  in  his  curiosity,  the  sportsman  drew  near  to  watch 
the  proceedings. 

"  You  had  better  keep  your  dog  away,  sir,"  suggested  a 
stout  little  gentleman  in  spectacles. 

"  Oh,  Snap's  all  right ;  never  mind  about  him,"  replied 
the  sportsman. 

But  Snap  evidently  thought  that  the  whole  affair  was 
got  up  for  his  amusement,  and  no  sooner  was  the  case 
thrown  into  the  water  than  he  dived  for  it,  came  to  the 
surface  with  the  deadly  thing  in  his  mouth,  and  made 
straight  for  the  bank  with  the  obvious  intention  of  laying 
it  at  the  feet  of  his  master.  Then  was  seen  a  strange 
and  comical  sight :  the  eminent  scientists,  none  of  them 
remarkable  for  youth  or  agility,  bolting  panic-stricken  in 
every  direction  from  the  innocently  murderous  dog. 

The  sportsman  showed  as  clean  a  pair  of  heels  as  any. 
Snap,  however,  taking  this  to  be  part  of  the  performance, 
joined  in  the  race,  naturally  sticking  to  his  master,  who  at 
last,  exhausted  and  perspiring,  flung  himself  down  behind  a 
sand-hillock,  shrieking  out  curses  and  shaking  his  fist 
fiercely  at  the  dog. 

But  Snap  came  on  with  wagging  tail,  proud  of  his  clever- 
ness, and  anxious  to  drop  what  he  had  retrieved  beside  his 
master.  All  this  time  the  fuse  was  burning  lower  and 
lower.  With  a  yell  of  terror  the  sportsman  sprang  to  his 
feet  again  and  fled  after  the  stampeding  scientists,  the  dog 
and  the  dynamite  close  at  his  heels. 

The  experimentalists,  whose  breath  was  nearly  spent, 
screamed  out  imprecations  against  the  approaching  horror. 
"  Keep  away  !  Keep  away  !  You  fool !  it  must  go  off  in 
a  few  minutes.  Don't  let  that  infernal  dog  come  near  us  ;  it 
means  certain  death.  For  God's  sake,  drive  the  brute  away, 
or  we  shall  all  be  killed."  But  Snap,  like  avenging  Fate, 
trotted  stolidly  on  in  the  track  of  his  terror-smitten  master. 
Finally,  the  latter  rushed  to  cover  under  another  small 
hillock,  from  behind  which  he  bombarded  the  too  faithful 
Snap  with  stones  and  gravel  so  furiously  that  the  dog 
paused  in  amazement  at  this  hostile  reception.  That  pause 
brought  his  doom..  There  was  a  terrific  explosion  ;  the 
sportsman  was  blown  on  his  back  by  the  shock.     When, 

i8 


274  SPORTING   STORIES 

dazed  but  unhurt,  he  picked  himself  up  and  cleared  the 
sand  out  of  his  eyes,  he  looked  around  for  Snap.  The 
dog  had  vanished !  A  scrap  of  tail — that  was  all  that  poor 
Snap  left  behind  him. 

I  recall  two  remarkable  instances  of  dogs  entering  into 
sporting  partnerships. 

In  the  first  of  these  the  confederates  were  a  greyhound 
and  a  pointer,  the  property  of  a  Mr  Wood  of  Southhall,  who 
were  in  the  habit  of  going  off  together  and  having  a  quiet 
day's  sport  on  their  own  account.  The  pointer  found  the 
hare  and  stood  to  it,  then  the  greyhound  killed  it,  some- 
times springing  on  it  in  its  forme,  sometimes  giving  it 
a  course  for  its  life.  The  nefarious  confederacy  was  dis- 
covered, and,  to  prevent  any  more  such  poaching  in  partner- 
ship, a  large  ring  was  fastened  to  the  pointer's  collar,  almost 
reaching  to  his  feet.  It  was  thought  that  this  would  effectu- 
ally check  his  progress  through  the  fields  and  coverts.  As 
the  pair  of  confederates,  however,  kept  up  their  programme 
and  were  apparently  as  keen  as  ever  on  their  sport,  a  strict 
watch  was  set  over  their  movements.  It  was  then  dis- 
covered that  when  well  away  from  home  the  greyhound 
took  the  ring,  in  his  mouth,  and  in  that  way  enabled  his 
friend  to  clear  any  hedge  or  obstruction  they  came  across. 
As  soon  as  the  pointer  winded  a  hare,  his  confederate 
dropped  the  ring,  and  when  puss  was  found  on  her  forme 
the  greyhound  quickly  played  his  part  in  the  game. 

In  the  second  case  the  confederates  were  a  collie  and  a 
fox-terrier  belonging  to  a  friend  of  mine  living  at  Erdington, 
a  suburb  of  Birmingham.  My  friend  and  his  wife  frequently 
noticed  when  they  came  down  to  breakfast  that  the  collie 
and  the  fox-terrier  were  lying  on  the  mat  in  the  porch, 
panting  and  exhausted  as  if  they  had  been  running  for 
their  lives.  My  friend's  curiosity  was  roused,  and  he 
determined  to  keep  a  watch  on  the  dogs.  The  servants 
used  to  loose  the  collie  and  the  fox-terrier  about  six  in  the 
morning,  and  the  pair  instantly  started  off  together  ;  but  my 
friend  for  a  long  while  could  not  discover  what  they  did  on 
their  morning  expeditions. 

He  was  eventually  enlightened  by  a  keeper  who  came 
up  to  him  one  day  and  said  :     "  Mister  P.,  them  dogs  o' 


DOG   STORIES  275 

yourn  will  get  ye  into  trouble  afore  long  if  you  don't  chain 
'em  up."  "Why?  What  have  they  been  doing ?  "  "I'll 
tell  'ee,  sir,  what  'appens.  That  ere  collie  and  tarrier  o' 
yourn  hunts  reg'lar  together.  The  tarrier  he  finds  the  'are, 
and  the  collie  he  runs  her  down,  then  they  'ides  their  kill 
in  a  bush  or  hedge.  I've  seen  'em  a  doin'  of  it  a  dozen 
times  and  more,  till  I  was  sure  and  sartin,  and  then  I 
thought  I'd  better  give  you  warnin',  sir,  for  o'  course  I  can't 
'ave  'em  goin'  on  killin'  our  'ares  like  that." 

My  friend  was  not  quite  convinced,  but  at  the  keeper's 
suggestion  he  stole  out  early  one  morning,  joined  his  in- 
formant in  a  copse,  and  sure  enough  it  fell  out  just  as  the 
keeper  had  described.  The  confederates  were  caught,  and 
their  poaching  expeditions  suppressed. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF   RIFLE-SHOOTING 

I  WAS  a  practical  rifle-shot  before  Wimbledon  meetings 
and  the  National  Rifle  Association  came  into  existence. 
Hanging  on  the  wall  in  front  of  me  as  I  write  are  two  old 
muzzle-loading  rifles — the  one  a  four-grooved,  the  other  a 
two-grooved — which  were  manufactured,  I  suppose,  seventy 
or  eighty  years  ago,  and  have  seen  service  all  over  the 
world.  These  venerable  weapons  would  excite  the  derision 
of  the  twentieth-century  crack  shot,  accustomed  to  his 
beautifully  accurate  match  rifle.  They  were  fitted  with  a 
ponderous  steel  ramrod  with  a  round  top,  and  you  had  to 
hammer  the  bullet  down  with  a  mallet.  Yet  they  were 
accurate  enough  up  to  200  yards.  I  have  seen  some  good 
shooting  done  with  the  old  Brown  Bess  up  to  the  same 
range ;  and  with  an  old  Spanish  smooth-bore  gun,  of  about 
i8-gauge,  converted  from  a  flint  into  a  percussion,  I  have 
frequently  beaten  rifles  at  1 50  yards. 

I  remember  watching  a  detachment  of  the  23rd  Welsh 
Fusiliers  practising  with  the  Minie  rifle  just  before  the 
Crimean  War,  and  hearing  military  men  go  into  ecstasies 
over  its  precision. 

In  those  days  the  Yankees  were  supposed  to  be  the 
crack  shots  of  the  universe,  and  marvellous  tales  were  told 
of  the  riflemen  of  Kentucky,  with  their  six-foot  rifles 
carrying  a  |-oz.  bullet.  Readers  of  Fenimore  Cooper's 
novels  will  remember  that  the  target  for  a  Christmas  prize 
shooting  was  the  head  of  a  turkey  at  100  yards.  The 
body  was  buried  in  the  snow,  leaving  only  the  head  and 
an  inch  of  the  neck  visible.  Yet  the  immortal  Leather 
Stocking  never  failed  to  cut  the  head  clean  ofl"  at  the  first 
shot.     This,  after  all,  was  a  trifle  compared  with  hammer- 

276 


RIFLE-SHOOTING  277 

ing  in  a  nail  with  a  single  bullet  at  lOO  yards.  Even  to  see 
the  head  of  the  nail  at  that  distance  requires  remarkably 
good  eyes — what  Sam  Weller  called  "  a  pair  o'  patent 
double  million  magnifyin'  gas  microscopes  of  extry  power." 

One  of  the  best  rifle-shots  before  the  modern  Express 
and  match  rifles  were  known  was  a  Mr  Smith,  of  Stone,  in 
Staffordshire,  a  miller,  and  a  keen  sportsman.  In  a  match 
for  ;^20  he  hit  five  penny  pieces  in  succession  at  50  yards  ; 
and  in  the  year  i860,  when  he  was  an  old  man,  obliged  to 
wear  spectacles,  I  saw  him  smash  seven  oyster-shells  in 
succession  at  100  yards.  And  he  was  just  as  good  with 
a  fowling-piece.  He  shot  partridges  with  a  double-barrel 
of  i8-bore,  and  seldom  failed  to  drop  his  right  and  left 
stone-dead. 

But  I  suppose  the  late  Captain  Horatio  Ross  was  the 
best  all-round  shot  we  have  ever  seen  in  this  country.  He 
had  no  superior  as  a  pigeon  and  game  shot,  and  no  equal 
as  a  pistol  or  rifle  shot.  Take  two  instances.  In  1820  he 
won  the  Red  House  Club  Cup  by  killing  76  birds  out  of 
80,  30  yards  rise,  5  traps ;  three  more  hit  the  top  of  the 
palings  and  counted  as  misses,  but  fell  within  the  grounds. 
One  got  over  the  palings  owing  to  his  right  barrel  missing 
fire,  but  was  feathered  with  the  left.  Shooting  against 
Lord  Macdonald,  in  1841,  he  killed  52  pigeons  in  53  shots 
at  35  yards  rise.  In  a  pistol  match  against  a  Spanish 
gentleman,  the  Captain  hit  the  small  bull's-eye,  which  was 
exactly  the  size  of  a  sixpence,  23  times  out  of  25  shots,  at 
12  yards,  the  then  favourite  duelling  distance. 

When  rifle-shooting  came  into  vogue,  Ross  was  upwards 
of  sixty  years  of  age,  and,  although  he  had  had  plenty  of 
deer-stalking,  had  not  shot  at  targets  for  more  than  five- 
and-twenty  years.  Yet  at  Wimbledon  he  carried  off"  the 
three  great  small-bore  prizes  at  long  ranges — the  Association 
Cup,  the  Any  Rifle  Wimbledon  Cup,  and  the  Duke  of 
Cambridge's — for  which  all  the  crack  shots  of  the  day 
competed.  When  he  was  in  his  sixty-sixth  year  he  wrote 
to  a  friend :  "  I  have  begun  my  training  for  the  rifle 
season ;  I  am  shooting  wonderfully  well,  all  things  con- 
sidered. Last  week  I  tried  the  very  long  distance  of  i  lOO 
yards,  and  made  a  better  score  than  is  often  made  at  that 


278  SPORTING    STORIES 

great  range — seven  bull's-eyes,  three  centres,  and  five  outers 
in  fifteen  shots."  ^ 

In  June  1867  ^  saw  this  wonderful  veteran  win  the 
Cambridge  University  Long  Range  Club's  Cup  against 
all  the  best  shots  of  the  day,  including  his  own  son  Edward, 
the  first  winner  of  the  Queen's  Prize.  The  Captain  wound 
up,  on  that  occasion,  with  seven  consecutive  bull's-eyes  at 
1000  yards.  Cambridge  at  that  time  was  a  great  centre  of 
rifle-shooting  ;  and  with  such  splendid  shots  as  Edward 
Ross  and  J.  H.  Doe  of  Trinity,  and  Peterkin  of  Emmanuel, 
in  the  University  corps,  they  never  failed  to  carry  off  the 
Chancellor's  Plate  from  Oxford.  Edward  Ross,  though  a 
wonderfully  steady  and  accurate  marksman,  was  never 
equal  to  his  father.  He  and  his  father  were  the  joint  heroes 
of  one  memorable  feat.  At  the  Highland  Rifle  Association 
Meeting  in,  I  think,  1867  there  were  thirteen  open  prizes 
to  be  competed  for,  and  Captain  Ross  and  his  son  Edward 
won  eleven  of  them  ! 

Another  member  of  the  family,  Hercules  Ross,  was  a 
remarkable  shot.  He  won  the  Indian  Championship  three 
years  in  succession,  and  the  last  year  made  nine  bull's-eyes 
out  of  ten  shots  at  1000  yards.  Hercules  Ross  was  one  of 
the  heroes  of  the  Indian  Mutiny,  and  did  signal  service 
with  his  deadly  rifle  during  that  terrible  struggle.  On  one 
occasion  he  performed  a  feat  of  skill  and  valour  which  has 
seldom  been  surpassed.  He  rode  nearly  a  hundred  miles 
to  a  ford  on  the  River  Gogra,  where  it  was  expected  that  a 
large  force  of  mutineers  intended  to  cross.  It  was  of  vital 
importance  to  keep  them  at  bay  till  the  women  and 
children  and  the  sick  and  wounded  could  be  removed  to  an 
English  station  close  by.  Hercules  Ross  undertook  the 
task.  A  pit  was  dug  on  the  bank  of  the  river  commanding 
the  ford,  where  he  took  his  post  with  a  dozen  good  rifles, 
and  four  attendants  to  load  for  him.  Heavy  rains  had 
swollen  the  river,  and  the  ford  was  impassable;  but  the 
enemy  began  to  cross  in  boats.  Ross,  from  his  pit,  picked 
off  the  rowers  one  by  one.  Time  after  time  the  boats  put 
back ;  time  after  time  they  came  on  again,  but  the  quick 
and  deadly  fire  which  that  single  rifleman  kept  up  prevented 
*  There  were  no  "  magpies  "  at  that  time. 


RIFLE-SHOOTING  279 

them  from  ever  getting  more  than  a  third  of  the  way  across. 
For  three  hours,  with  unfailing  skill  and  nerve,  Ross  shot 
down  the  rebel  oarsmen  whenever  they  attempted  to  cross, 
till  at  last  a  body  of  English  troops  with  three  guns  came 
up,  and  the  Sepoys  retired. 

By  his  courage  and  skill  Ross  undoubtedly  saved  the 
lives  of  those  English  women  and  their  wounded 
companions. 

Another  feat  of  practical  rifle-shooting  was  at  Lucknow 
during  the  long  and  terrible  siege.  It  surpassed  Ross's 
achievement,  as  it  was  a  sustained  effort,  kept  up  for  many 
days,  under  a  fearful  strain  upon  the  watchfulness  and 
endurance  of  the  solitary  marksman.  The  hero  of  this 
exploit  was  Sergeant  Holwell,  of  the  32nd  Foot.  The 
Sepoys  had  hauled  a  couple  of  guns  on  to  the  flat  roof  of  one 
of  the  palaces  which  surrounded  the  Residency.  If  they 
had  mounted  those  guns  the  Residency  would  have  been 
untenable,  and  the  English  would  have  been  compelled  to 
surrender.  Holwell,  being  a  crack  shot,  was  supplied  with 
the  best  rifles  the  place  possessed,  and  was  posted  in  an 
angle  of  the  Residency,  to  prevent  the  mounting  of  the  guns. 
The  part  of  the  building  in  which  Holwell  took  up  his 
position  had  already  been  battered  into  a  heap  of  ruins, 
and  behind  the  shattered  masonry  he  lay  at  full  length — 
there  was  just  cover  enough  to  protect  him  in  that  posture. 
For  days  he  remained  there,  never  once  rising  to  his  feet, 
or  even  to  his  knees,  for  that  would  have  been  to  court 
instant  death  from  the  swarm  of  rebel  marksmen.  The 
only  change  of  posture  in  which  he  could  indulge  was  by 
rolling  over  from  his  back  to  his  stomach,  and  vice  versa. 
The  Sepoys  never  succeeded  in  mounting  those  guns. 
Whenever  they  attempted  it  Holwell  picked  them  off,  till 
they  dared  no  longer  expose  themselves  to  his  deadly  aim. 
In  the  dead  of  night  provisions  were  conveyed  to  him  by 
men  crawling  on  their  hands  and  knees,  to  avoid  the  shots 
of  their  foes.  For  this  service  Holwell  was  rewarded  with 
the  Victoria  Cross  ;  and  never  did  any  man  more  richly 
deserve  it. 

Some  years  ago  I  saw  a  tall,  soldierly-looking  man, 
in  a  peculiar  costume,  outside  a  shop  in  New  Oxford  Street. 


280  SPORTING   STORIES 

He  had  medals  on  his  breast,  and  amongst  them  the  little 
gun-metal  cross  which  bears  the  simple  inscription,  "  For 
Valour."  I  got  into  conversation  with  the  man,  and  found 
that  he  was  Sergeant  Holwell,  the  hero  of  Lucknow,  who 
was  acting  as  outside  attendant  at  the  shop.  I  had  more 
than  one  conversation  with  him  afterwards,  and  then  lost 
sight  of  him.  I  believe  he  has  been  dead  many  years. 
I  wonder  how  many  of  the  ladies  whose  carriage  doors  he 
opened  guessed  what  a  valiant  soldier  was  rendering  them 
his  humble  services. 

I  was  a  constant  attendant  at  the  old  Wimbledon 
meetings,  and  have  seen  rifle-shooting  make  wonderful 
strides  since  Edward  Ross  won  the  Queen's  Prize  with  a 
score  of  24  out  of  a  possible  30  at  800,  900,  and  1000  yards. 
But  there  were  no  centres  at  the  long  ranges  in  those  days. 
A  bull's-eye  counted  two,  and  an  outer  one,  so  that  to  make 
even  an  average  of  outers  was  no  mean  performance.  The 
most  remarkable  sight  I  ever  saw  at  Wimbledon  was  the 
shooting  for  the  Queen's  Prize  in  1873.  Sergeant  Menzies, 
of  the  ist  Edinburgh,  had  made  65  ;  Private  Pullman,  of  a 
Somerset  corps,  was  only  one  point  behind,  and  had  three 
shots  to  fire.  He  had  only  to  hit  the  target  once  in  three 
shots,  and  the  prize  was  his.  Some  rash  friend  acquainted 
him  with  this  fact.  The  excitement  was  too  much  for  him ; 
he  missed  every  shot,  and  lost  the  coveted  prize  just  when 
it  seemed  within  his  grasp.  But  three  years  later  Pullman, 
then  a  sergeant  in  the  2nd  Middlesex,  wiped  out  the 
memory  of  that  failure  by  winning  the  blue  riband  of 
Wimbledon  in  gallant  style. 

Angus  Cameron,  of  the  6th  Inverness,  a  jeweller  by  trade, 
was  up  to  the  year  1900 — when  Ward  of  Devon,  a  coach- 
builder,  rivalled  his  great  feat — 'the  only  man  who  had  won 
the  Queen's  Prize  twice  ;  and  each  time  he  was  credited  with 
a  higher  score  than  had  previously  been  made  in  the  com- 
petition. But  the  remarkable  point  about  this  feat  was 
that  between  his  first  and  second  triumph  he  lost  the 
sight  of  his  right  eye,  and  had  to  shoot  from  the  left 
shoulder  instead  of  the  right  as  before.  Subsequently,  the 
sight  of  the  left  eye  became  so  defective  that  his  shooting 
days  came  to  an  untimely  end.     Cameron  was  a  teetotaller, 


RIFLE-SHOOTING  281 

and  I  shall  not  forget  the  look  of  disgust  on  the  faces  of  the 
hospitable  "  Victorias,"  who  claimed  the  prescriptive  right 
of  handing  their  splendid  regimental  loving  cup,  foaming 
with  champagne,  to  the  winner,  when  that  little  Highland 
jeweller  refused  the  proffered  goblet,  and  asked  for — a  bottle 
of  ginger  beer !  What  a  contrast  to  his  countryman, 
M'Vittie,  of  Dumfries,  who  used  to  fortify  himself  with  a 
stiff  dram  of  "  mountain  dew  "  before  shooting  at  each  of 
the  long  ranges. 

Of  the  exploits  of  M'Vittie  and  all  the  other  notable 
marksmen  of  the  old  Wimbledon  days  I  have  written  fully 
in  another  work  {Kings  of  the  Rod,  Rifle,  and  Gun). 

I  will  wind  up  with  a  couple  of  instances  of  "  tall  shoot- 
ing," which  the  reader  is  at  liberty  to  believe  or  not  as  he 
chooses. 

John  Mytton,  the  notorious  mad  Squire  of  Halston,  was 
one  of  the  finest  game  and  rifle  shots  of  his  day.  It  is 
told  of  him  that  he  could  split  a  bullet  on  the  edge  of  a 
razor  at  thirty  yards,  and  at  double  that  distance  send  a 
ball  time  after  time  through  the  peg-hole  of  a  trimmer  used 
for  pike-fishing,  the  said  hole  being  an  inch  and  a  half  in 
diameter. 

After  that  the  following  Yankee  yarn  may  not  seem 
wholly  incredible.  The  hero  is  Dr  Frank  Powell  of 
Lacrosse,  Wisconsin,  U.S.,  a  popular  and  successful 
surgeon  and  M.D.,  but  more  famous  for  his  marvellous 
skill  with  the  rifle.  Among  the  Indians,  who  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  him,  he  is  known  as  "  The  White 
Beaver."  According  to  "the  very  reliable  authority" 
quoted  in  an  American  journal,  some  gentlemen  called 
upon  Dr  Powell  one  day  to  witness  his  powers  as  a  marks- 
man.'^  They  found  him  with  Mr  Richardson,  and  the 
Doctor,  as  a  pleasing  preliminary,  observing  that  his  friend 
Richardson's  lips  embraced  a  cigar  about  an  inch  long, 
picked  up  his  rifle,  and  knocked  away  the  cigar  stub. 

"  Richardson,  in  order  to  show  his  friend's  steadiness 
of  aim,  then  placed  a  cork  on  the  top  of  his  own  head,  and 
asked  the  other  to  shoot  it  off,  which  the  Doctor  did  at 
once  with  a  revolver  shot.  Then,  stooping  backwards, 
Richardson  balanced  a  pea-nut  on  his  nose,   which  must 


282  SPORTING    STORIES 

have  been  wide  as  well  as  large — the  nose,  not  the  pea-nut 
— and  that  at  once  shared  the  fate  of  the  cork." 

But  listen  to  the  closing  feat  of  this  miraculous  display : — 
"  Taking  a  knife-blade,  Dr  Powell  fastened  it  to  a  target, 
and  at  each  side  of  the  knife  he  fixed  a  tiny  bell.  Then 
calling  in  his  office-boy,  he  placed  between  the  youth's 
fingers  his  Masonic  ring  covered  with  white  tissue  paper. 
Between  the  boy  and  the  target  Richardson  stood,  cigar  in 
mouth.  Stepping  back  fully  fifty  feet" — so  the  con- 
scientious reporter  relates — " '  White  Beaver '  raised  his 
rifle.  '  Now  both  of  you  stand  steady  ! '  he  said,  and  fired, 
and  simultaneously  came  two  sharp  rings  from  the  bells. 
The  ball  had  passed  through  the  finger  ring,  snuffed  the 
ashes  from  Richardson's  cigar,  and  splitting  upon  the 
knife-blade,  had  glanced  off  on  each  side  and,  rang  both 
bells  ! " 

How  is  that  for  high  7 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

FISHING  YARNS 

Sir  Samuel  Montagu,  M.P.,  when  presiding  at  the  annual 
dinner  of  the  Fly-fishers  Club,  laid  it  down  as  an  axiom 
that  in  estimating  the  veracity  of  anglers'  tales  as  to  the 
weight  and  size  of  fish  landed  or  lost,  one-third  of  both 
size  and  weight  should  be  deducted.  No  dissent  was 
offered  by  any  angler  present,  probably  for  the  very  good 
reason  that  everyone  felt  that  the  deduction  was  a  moderate 
one.  If  Sir  Samuel  had  said  two-thirds,  I  am  sure  that 
there  are  plenty  of  anglers  who  could  have  supplied  him 
with  evidence  to  prove  that  even  that  allowance  was  not 
too  great.  A  Scotch  fisherman,  residing  on  the  shores  of 
a  certain  loch,  when  asked  why  the  fish  in  a  neighbouring 
loch  ran  so  much  bigger  than  his  own,  replied,  "  It's  no 
the  fish  that's  bigger,  but  they're  bigger  leears  up  there." 
He  did  not,  you  will  note,  attempt  to  deny  that  he  was  a 
"  leear,"  he  only  contended  that  his  brethren  on  the  other 
loch  were  "  bigger  leears." 

Now,  why  is  it  that  anglers  are  notoriously  greater  liars 
than  other  sportsmen?  It  is,  I  believe,  an  undisputed  fact 
that  no  man  can  be  trusted  to  tell  the  truth  when  he  is 
trying  to  sell  a  horse.  That  famous  Father  of  Foxhunting, 
John  Warde,  used  to  say,  "  Never  believe  a  word  any 
man  says  about  a  horse  he  wishes  to  sell — not  even  a 
bishop"  And  no  man  was  more  qualified  to  speak  from 
experience  than  the  old  foxhunter.  Horses  and  fish 
appear  to  demoralise  all  who  are  brought  into  contact  with 
them.  I  do  not  attempt  to  explain  this  peculiar  propensity 
of  human  nature.  I  merely  state  the  fact  and  leave  the 
explanation  to  professors  of  ethics. 

But   this    is   a   harmless  failing.     It  injures  no  one;   it 

283 


284  SPORTING    STORIES 

deceives  no  one ;  for  who  was  ever  known  to  accept 
without  a  liberal  grain  of  salt  the  angling  stories  of  even 
his  dearest  friend?  Just  as  discount  booksellers  take  off 
three  pence  in  the  shilling  from  the  advertised  price  of 
books,  every  angler  discounts  the  statements  of  his  brother 
anglers,  and  thinks  none  the  worse  of  them  because  such 
discount  is  necessary  to  arrive  at  an  approximate  estimate 
of  the  truth.  For,  like  the  Scotchman  in  the  familiar  story, 
each  angler  secretly  confesses,  "  I'm  a  bit  of  a  leear  myself." 

I  hope  I  shall  not  offend  my  brother  anglers  by  these 
candid  remarks  any  more  than  Sir  Samuel  Montagu  did. 
For  I  love  the  sport  and  sympathise  with  all  who  follow  it, 
though  fly-fishing  is  the  particular  branch  which  has  most 
charm  for  me.  Old  Robert  Burton  mentioned  angling 
among  the  cures  for  melancholy;  and  many  anglers  will  be 
interested  in  the  following  passage  from  that  monumental 
collection  of  out-of-the-way  learning  and  quaint  philosophy. 
The  Anatomic  of  Melancholy. 

"  Fishing,"  said  the  Oxford  Don,  "  is  a  kind  of  hunting 
by  water,  be  it  with  nets,  weeles,  baites,  angling,  or  otherwise, 
and  yields  all  out  as  much  pleasure  to  some  men  as  dogs 
or  hawkes  when  they  draw  the  fish  upon  the  bank.  T. 
Dubranius  dc  piscibus  telleth  how,  travelling  in  Silesia,  he 
found  a  nobleman  booted  up  to  the  groines,  wading  himself, 
pulling  the  nets,  and  labouring  as  much  as  any  fisherman 
of  them  all ;  and  when  some  belike  objected  to  him  the 
baseness  of  his  office,  he  excused  himself,  that  if  other 
men  might  hunt  hares,  why  should  he  not  hunt  carps  ? 
Many  gentlemen  in  like  sort  with  us  will  wade  up  to  their 
armholes  on  like  occasions  and  voluntarie  undertake  that, 
to  satisfie  their  pleasure,  which  poore  men  for  a  good  stipend 
would  scarce  be  hired  to  undergo.  But  he  that  shall  con- 
sider the  variety  of  baits  for  all  seasons,  and  pretty  devices 
which  our  anglers  have  invented,  peculiar  lines,  false  flies, 
several  sleights,  etc.,  etc.,  will  say  that  it  deserves  com- 
mendation, requires  as  much  study  as  the  rest,  and  it  is  to 
be  preferred  before  many  of  them.  But  this  is  still  and 
quiet ;  and  if  so  be  the  angler  catch  no  fish,  yet  he  hath 
a  wholesome  walk  to  the  brook's  side,  pleasant  shade  by 
the  sweet  silver  streams ;  he  hath  good  aire,  and  sweete 


FISHING   YARNS  285 

smells  of  fine  fresh  meadow  flowers  ;  he  heares  the  melody 
of  birds,  and  sees  the  water-fowles  with  their  brood,  which 
he  thinketh  better  than  the  noise  of  hounds  and  homes, 
and  all  the  sport  they  can  make." 

I  suppose  the  pike  is  the  fish  which  has  more  than  any 
other  exercised  the  romancing  powers  of  anglers.  Some 
five-and-twenty  years  ago  it  was  reported  that  there  was 
an  immense  pike  frequenting  the  river  near  Staines,  which 
the  local  fishermen  estimated  as  weighing  30  or  40  lbs. 
at  the  very  least.  The  fame  of  this  pike  spread  far 
and  wide,  and  anglers  crowded  from  the  city  to  have 
a  try  for  him.  I  had  more  than  one  try  myself,  but  soon 
abandoned  the  task.  Others,  however,  tried  for  that  pike 
week  after  week  with  a  persistency  and  a  devout  belief  in 
its  existence,  which  were  really  touching  to  behold.  I  had 
my  suspicions  that  the  pike  was  a  finny  relative  of  Sairey 
Gamp's  "  Mrs  Harris,"  and  years  afterwards  I  learned  from 
an  old  fisherman,  who  had  often  been  my  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend,  that  my  suspicions  were  well  founded — the 
great  pike  was  a  pure  creation  of  the  imagination. 

Colonel  Thornton,  the  greatest  all-round  sportsman  of 
the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  in  the  narrative 
of  his  Tour  in  the  Highlands,  gives  an  account  of  the 
capture  of  two  immense  pike — one  taken  in  Loch  Alvie, 
the  other  in  Loch  Petullich  ;  the  former  weighing  47  lbs. 
and  the  latter  about  36  lbs.  Strange  to  say — although  the 
Colonel  was  in  his  own  day  considered  rather  a  tall  shooter 
with  the  long-bow — modern  writers  on  angling  give  him 
credit  for  veracity  in  his  statements,  and  do  not  make 
even  Sir  Samuel  Montagu's  reduction  either  in  these  cases 
or  in  that  of  the  7|-lb.  perch  which  he  caught  in  Loch 
Lomond. 

But,  after  all.  Colonel  Thornton's  47-lb.  pike  was  a  mere 
infant  compared  with  the  celebrated  Kenmure  pike  taken 
in  Loch  Ken,  Galloway,  the  weight  of  which  was  72  lbs. 
This,  again,  takes  a  back  seat  by  comparison  with  two 
captured  in  Ireland — one  on  the  Broad  Wood  Lake, 
Killaloe,  weighing  96  lbs.,  the  other  in  the  Shannon, 
weighing  90  lbs.  Beyond  that  limit  one  would  have 
thought  that  no  pike  of  romance  could  have  passed.     Yet 


286  SPORTING   STORIES 

Sir  John  Hawkins,  a  credible  person,  and,  as  the  author 
of  The  General  History  of  Music,  entitled  to  respect,  gravely 
tells  us,  in  his  introduction  to  Izaak  Walton's  Compleat 
Angler,  of  a  pike  taken  in  1765  in  a  pool  at  Lilleshall  Lime 
Works  that  weighed  170  lbs.,  and  had  to  be  drawn  out  by 
several  men  with  stout  ropes  fastened  round  its  gills. 
I  am  thankful  to  say  that  no  one  has  yet  attempted  to  go 
one  better  than  that. 

One  wonders  what  a  monster  like  this  could  have  fed 
upon.  Why,  he  might  have  dragged  a  calf  into  the  water 
and  devoured  it !  To  show  the  voracity  of  even  pike  of  not 
a  fifth  the  size,  take  the  following:  An  enormous  pike, 
caught  at  Chillington  Pool  in  Brewood,  Staffordshire,  the 
seat  of  C.  F.  Gifford,  Esq.,  weighed  46  lbs.  and  measured 
from  head  to  tail  4  ft.  3  ins.  In  its  belly  was  found  a 
trout  weighing  \\  lbs.,  and  a  mole,  which  it  was  devour- 
ing when  caught.  My  authority  for  that  incident  is  the 
County  Chronicle,  June  1822. 

Here  is  another  pike  story,  which  I  give  on  the  authority 
of  the  Derby  i^^/^^r^'^r  of  September  1833  :  "  Two  gentlemen 
were  lately  perch  fishing  in  a  pond  belonging  to  Sir  G. 
Crewe,  when  a  pike,  apparently  about  2  lbs.,  was  hooked. 
The  assistance  of  the  angler's  friend  was  required  to  land 
the  fish,  but  before  this  gentleman  could  reach  the  place, 
the  feel  of  the  rod  suddenly  indicated  an  additional  weight 
or  resistance.  When  they  were  able  to  show  the  fish  he 
was  found  seized  across  the  back  by  a  much  larger — about 
10  lbs.  weight.  A  large  treble  hook  was  attached  to  a 
stick,  and  with  this  the  heavier  fish  was  struck — the  hook 
being  introduced  into  the  side  of  the  mouth.  By  a  sudden 
strong  lift  the  fish  were  landed,  the  parties  being  highly 
delighted  with  their  success." 

But  let  me  pass  on  to  what  Sir  Walter  Scott  calls  that 
noble  branch  of  the  art,  which  excels  all  other  use  of  the 
angling  rod  as  much  as  fox-hunting  excels  hare-hunting. 
I  am  not  going  to  enter  upon  a  rhapsody  of  fly-fishing ; 
but  I  will  frankly  admit  that  Charles  Cotton,  as  one  of  the 
fathers  of  fly-fishing,  seems  to  me  a  greater  man  than  his 
more  renowned  friend  Izaak  Walton,  who  was  for  the 
most  part  a  bottom-fisher.     The  man  who  has  never  hooked 


FISHING   YARNS  287 

and  landed  a  20-lb.  salmon  does  not  know  what  the  real 
joy  of  fishing  is.  Whilst  personally  I  consider  a  single 
lb.  trout,  taken  fairly  with  the  fly,  worth  a  dozen  lbs.  of 
bream  or  barbal  or  roach.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
claim  for  votaries  of  the  fly  a  superiority  over  those  who 
worship  the  worm — though  it  is  not  without  a  quiet 
chuckle  of  satisfaction  that  I  feel  my  withers  unwrung  by 
the  great  Lexicographer's  definition  of  angling  as  "  a  rod 
with  a  worm  at  one  end  and  a  fool  at  the  other." 

The  fly-fisher's  noblest  quarry  is,  of  course,  the  salmon  ; 
and  I  believe  the  record  salmon  taken  with  the  rod  in 
these  islands  is  54^  lbs.,  though  Sir  Hyde  Parker  eclipsed 
that  in  Sweden  with  a  fish  of  60  lbs.,  and  the  Earl  of  Home 
landed  one  of  70  lbs.  in  Norway.  But  to  few  mortals  have 
such  catches  been  granted,  and  the  man  who  can  boast 
(veraciously)  of  having  taken  a  25-lb.  salmon  with  the  rod 
is  a  person  to  be  envied.  Even  so  successful  a  fisherman 
as  Mr  Cholmondeley-Pennell  has  never  had  the  good 
fortune  to  take  one  of  more  than  23  lbs.  The  largest 
salmon  ever  taken  in  the  nets  weighed  83  lbs.,  and  was 
exhibited  in  a  London  fishmonger's  shop  in  the  summer 
of  the  year  1821. 

The  Thames  can  boast  of  the  largest  trout,  though  they 
are  rare.  Fish  of  23^  lbs.,  21  lbs.,  and  i6|  lbs.,  have  been 
taken  in  the  "silver  streaming  Temmes"  within  the  last 
ten  years.  Other  rivers,  though  unable  to  show  anything 
like  such  an  average  of  large  trout  as  the  Thames,  have 
beaten  it  in  individual  instances.  For  example,  in  1889,  a 
trout  weighing  27  lbs.  was  taken  in  the  Hampshire  Avon, 
and  another  of  25  lbs.  two  years  previously.  A  21 -lb.  trout 
was  taken  twenty  years  ago  from  the  Trent ;  and  in  the 
preserves  of  Sir  Home  Popham,  near  Hungerford,  where 
the  trout  are  artificially  fed  on  chopped  liver,  fish  of  23  lbs. 
7  ozs.  and  18  lbs.  respectively  have  been  taken. 

Colonel  Peter  Hawker,  the  famous  wild-fowl  shooter, 
killed  some  30,000  trout  in  a  score  of  seasons,  but  I  daresay 
that  record  has  been  beaten  by  others.  The  New  Sporting 
Magazine  for  July  1834  says  that  Dr  R.  Robertson,  one  of 
the  best  fishers  in  the  county,  took  in  one  day,  in  August 
1833  at  Ballater,  36   dozen  of  trout,  and   a  friend  killed 


288  SPORTING   STORIES 

on  the  same  day,  25  dozen  ;  these  were  all  about  the  size 
of  a  herring ;  the  trout  seldom  exceed  this  size  in  the  small 
mountain  streams. 

Among  the  curiosities  of  salmon-fishing  I  submit  the 
following  from  the  Sporting  Magazine  oi  July  1835.  The 
Rev.  Mr  Waring  of  Isleworth,  having  tired  and  brought  to 
the  top  of  the  water  a  fine  salmon,  and  being  on  the  point 
of  taking  it  into  the  punt,  another  large  fish  was  observed 
to  be  following  close  after  it ;  but  so  intent  upon  the  pursuit 
of  the  hooked  one  was  he  that  the  landing-hook  was 
inverted  under  his  gill  and  he  was  taken  without  any 
resistance.  Upon  examination  it  was  found  the  first  was 
a  female,  and  the  second  a  male,  and  doubtless,  as  this 
happened  during  the  spawning  season,  the  female  was 
about  to  deposit  her  eggs,  and  the  male  was  following  to 
ensure  the  propagation  of  the  species. 

In  illustration  of  the  queer  things  which  salmon  will 
bolt,  and  particularly  their  love  for  anything  bright,  the 
following  anecdote  is  told.  A  gentleman  of  Uleaborg, 
going  by  sea  to  Stockholm,  dropped  a  silver  spoon  into 
the  water,  which  was  swallowed  by  a  salmon  and  carried 
in  his  belly  to  Uleaborg,  where  the  fish  was  accidentally 
bought  by  the  gentleman's  wife,  who  immediately  concluded, 
on  seeing  the  spoon,  that  her  husband  was  shipwrecked ; 
he  returned,  however,  in  time  to  prevent  any  ill  conse- 
quences. A  somewhat  similar  incident  occurred  in 
England  not  long  ago.  A  large  pike  weighing  28  lbs.  was 
taken  in  the  Ouse,  and  sold  to  a  gentleman  in  Littleport. 
When  the  cook  cleaned  the  fish  she  found  inside  a  watch 
with  black  riband  and  keys,  which  had  belonged  to  the 
same  gentleman's  valet,  who  had  been  drowned  in  the 
river  some  months  before. 

Human  sportsmen  do  not,  however,  have  all  the  fun  of 
fishing  to  themselves.  Mr  Maxwell,  in  his  Wild  Sports 
of  the  West,  says  that  eagles  are  constantly  discovered 
watching  the  fords  in  the  spawning  time,  and  are  seen  to 
seize  and  carry  off  the  fish.  Some  years  ago  a  herdsman 
observed  an  eagle  posted  on  a  bank  which  overhung  a 
pool.  Presently  the  bird  stooped  and  seized  a  salmon,  and 
a  violent  struggle  ensued  ;   the  eagle  being  pulled  under 


FISHING   YARNS  289 

water  by  the  salmon,  and  his  plumage  so  drenched  that  he 
was  unable  to  free  himself.  The  peasant  broke  the  pinion 
of  the  eagle  with  a  stone,  and  actually  secured  the  spoiler 
and  his  victim,  for  he  found  the  salmon  dying  in  his  grasp. 

But  far  more  remarkable  was  the  case  of  a  duck  which 
hooked  a  trout  under  the  following  extraordinary  circum- 
stances, as  related  in  vol.  xlviii,  of  the  Sporting  Magazine. 
A  gentleman  angling  in  the  mill  dam  below  Winchester 
accidentally  threw  his  line  across  a  strong  white  duck, 
which,  suddenly  turning  round,  twisted  the  gut  about  her 
own  neck  and  fixed  the  hook  of  the  dropper  fly  in  her  own 
breast.  Thus  entangled  and  hooked,  she  soon  broke  off 
the  gut  above  the  dropper,  and  sailed  down  the  stream 
with  the  end  of  the  other  fly  trailing  behind  her.  She 
had  not  proceeded  far  before  a  trout  of  about  i|  lb.  took 
the  fly  effectually.  Then  commenced  an  extraordinary 
struggle.  When  the  trout  exerted  itself  the  duck  became 
frightened  and  dragged  the  fish  along.  When  the  trout 
was  more  quiet  the  duck  suffered  herself  to  be  drawn  under 
some  bushes,  where  her  head  was  frequently  pulled  under 
water.  Presently,  however,  the  gut  got  across  a  branch,  and 
the  duck,  taking  advantage  of  the  purchase  which  this  gave 
her,  dragged  her  opponent  out,  and  obliged  him  to  show 
his  head  above  water.  Then  it  became  a  contest  of  life 
and  death.  The  trout  was  in  its  last  agonies,  and  the  duck 
evidently  in  a  very  weak  state,  when  the  gut  broke  and  set 
them  both  free. 

A  farmer  living  near  Lochmaben,  Dumfriesshire,  kept  a 
gander  who  delighted  in  leading  his  cackling  harem  to 
circumnavigate  their  native  lake,  or  to  stray  amidst  the 
fields  on  the  opposite  shore.  Wishing  to  check  this  habit, 
the  farmer  tied  a  large  fish-hook  baited  with  dead  frog  to 
the  gander's  leg.  This  bait  soon  caught  the  eye  of  a 
greedy  pike,  which,  swallowing  the  deadly  hook,  not  only 
arrested  the  progress  of  the  astonished  gander,  but  forced 
him  to  perform  half  a  dozen  somersaults  on  the  surface  of 
the  water !  For  some  time  the  struggle  was  most  amusing 
' — the  fish  pulling,  and  the  bird  struggling  with  all  its 
might ;  the  one  attempting  to  fly,  the  other  to  swim,  from 
the  invisible  enemy,  while  the  fleet  of  geese  and  goslings 

19 


290  SPORTING   STORIES 

cackled  out  their  sympathy  for  their  afflicted  commodore. 
At  length  victory  declared  in  favour  of  the  feathered 
angler,  who,  bearing  away  for  the  nearest  shore,  landed 
one  of  the  largest  pike  ever  caught  in  the  Castle  loch.  The 
adventure  is  said  to  have  cured  the  gander  of  his  propensity 
for  wandering. 

In  the  reservoir  near  Glasgow  the  country  people  were 
reported  to  be  in  the  habit  of  employing  ducks  in  this 
novel  mode  of  fishing.  Thomas  Barker,  author  of  the  Art 
of  Angling-,  published  in  165 1,  gravely  assures  us  that  "the 
principal  way  to  take  a  pike  in  Shropshire  is  to  procure  a 
goose,  take  one  of  the  pike  lines,  bait  it,  tie  the  line  under 
the  left  wing  and  over  the  right  wing  of  the  goose,  turn 
it  into  a  pond  where  pike  are,  and  you  are  sure  to  have 
some  sport." 

But,  after  all,  that  is  not  so  remarkable  as  the  method 
which  a  Mr  Darcy,  of  Oxford,  adopted  for  taking  barbel. 
"  Darcy,"  says  a  writer  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
"  kept  a  music  shop  at  Oxford,  and  was  an  excellent 
swimmer.  He  used  to  dive  into  a  deep  hole  near  the  Four 
Streams,  a  bathing-place  well  known  to  the  Oxonians,  and 
having  remained  under  water  a  minute  he  returned  with  a 
brace  of  barbel,  one  in  each  hand.  Darcy  said  that  the 
fish  lay  with  their  heads  against  the  bank,  in  parallel  lines, 
like  horses  in  their  stalls.  They  were  not  disturbed  at 
his  approach,  but  allowed  him  to  come  quite  close  to  them 
and  select  the  finest." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

CRICKET  PAST  AND  PRESENT 

Mr  Brodrick,  Secretary  of  State  for  India,  at  a  cricket 
club  dinner  in  1904  suggested  a  revision  of  the  rules 
of  cricket  which  would  prevent  batsmen  having  it  all 
their  own  way,  and  strongly  advocated  raising  the  stumps 
an  inch. 

Whenever  the  bat  appears  to  have  gained  an  ascendency 
over  the  ball,  someone  advocates  drastic  measures  of  reform. 
Then  comes  a  wet  season,  with  low  scoring  and  triumphs 
for  the  bowler,  and  the  reformers  are  silenced.  The  notion 
of  heightening  or  widening  the  stumps  is  no  new  one.  It 
was  seriously  put  forward  a  few  years  ago,  and  there  was 
a  hot  controversy  over  it.  But  the  common  sense  of  the 
majority  prevailed. 

In  the  year  1836,  when  Alfred  Mynn  made  his  first 
appearance  for  the  Gentlemen  against  the  Players,  the 
superiority  of  the  latter  was  so  great  that,  to  make  the 
match  equal,  it  was  arranged  that  the  Gentlemen  should 
defend  wickets  22  inches  by  6  inches,  and  the  Players 
wickets  27  inches  by  7  inches.  But  the  Gentlemen  only 
scored  57  and  60  in  their  two  innings,  against  the  151  of 
the  Players  in  their  single  innings.  Then  it  was  decided 
that  this  alteration  of  the  fundamental  rules  of  the  game 
was  as  useless  as  it  was  distasteful,  and  the  plan  was 
never  tried  again. 

No  doubt  the  perfection  to  which  cricket-pitches  have 
now  attained  makes  the  bowler's  task  harder:  but,  takincr 
one  season  with  another,  the  trundler  still  holds  his  own. 
Admirers  of  the  round-arm  bowling,  of  which  Mynn, 
Redgate,  Lilly  white,  Tarrant,  Jackson,  and  Freeman  were 
such  brilliant  exponents,  declare  that  it  was  far  deadlier 

291 


292  SPORTING   STORIES 

and  more  difificult  to  play  than  the  modern  overhand  style  ; 
but  the  ground  helped  the  bowler  then  far  more  than  it 
does  now.  "  W.  G.,"  whose  experience  is  greater  than  that 
of  any  other  living  cricketer,  says  that  the  fast  bowling  of 
to-day  is  inferior  to  that  of  thirty  years  ago. 

I  can  remember  the  storm  of  controversy  provoked  by 
Edgar  Willsher's  style  when,  seven-and-forty  years  ago,  he 
introduced  in  a  modified  form  the  overhand  action  which 
is   now  universal.     I    was  at  the  Oval  during  the  match 
between  England  and  Surrey  in  1862.     England  had  gone 
in  first  and  scored  503.      When  Surrey  went  in  Willsher 
opened  the  bowling.     He  bowled  two  overs  without  any 
protest.     But    when    he     started     the     third,    Lillywhite 
promptly   no-balled   his   first   delivery   and   each    of    the 
succeeding  five,  though  none  could  detect  any  difference 
between  Willsher's  action  in  this  over  and  in  the  two  pre- 
ceding ones.     Lillywhite,  however,  insisted  that  Willsher's 
bowling  was  in  direct  contravention  of  the  rule  that  for- 
bade the  bowler's  hand  to  be  raised  above  his  shoulder  in 
the  act  of  delivering   the   ball.     Willsher,  in  indignation, 
flung  down  the  ball  and  left  the  field,  followed  by  the  whole 
of  the  England  eleven.     As  Lillywhite  stuck  to  his  point 
(and,  mind  you,  he  was  perfectly  right  in  doing   so),  the 
committee  of  the  Surrey  Club  held  a  consultation,  the  issue 
of  which  was  that  Lillywhite  was  superseded  by  Street,  and 
the  fairness  of  Willsher's  bowling  was  challenged  no  more. 
Edgar  Willsher  was  one  of  the  finest  bowlers  I  ever  saw. 
I  do  not  think  that  at  his  best  he  has  ever  had  a  superior — 
not   even    Spofforth.     One   great   feat   of  his  was  in  the 
match  between  Sixteen  of  Kent  and  Eleven  of  England  at 
Canterbury  in  1863,  when  Willsher  had  the  extraordinary 
analysis  of  41  overs:  31  maidens,  17  runs,  8  wickets! — and 
this  was  against  a  side   which   comprised    such    splendid 
cricketers   as   C.    G.   Lane,    R.    Marsham,   W.  Nicholson, 
Caffyn,   Carpenter,  Grundy,  Hayward,  Jackson,  J.    Lilly- 
white,  Lockyer,  and  George  Parr. 

I  wonder  what  the  objectors  to  cautious  play  would  have 
said  to  the  rate  of  scoring  fifty  years  ago.  Talk  of  your 
Scottons  and  Barlows :  they  were  rapid  run-getters  com- 
pared with  most  of  the  batsmen  of  that  day.     At  the  first 


A    TICKET    FOR    A    CRICKET    MATCH,    1787. 

(From   an   cIJ  print  in   the    'Biitisli   z^fuseum.J 


[  To  fine  p.  J92. 


CRICKET   PAST    AND   PRESENT    293 

Canterbury  Week,  in  1841,  Lillywhite  was  an  hour  and  a 
half  scoring  seven  runs,  and  the  total  score  for  that  time  was 
only  15  ;  but  30  runs  an  hour  was  then,  and  for  long  after- 
wards, considered  fast  scoring.  One  hundred  balls  were 
bowled  on  that  occasion  at  Canterbury  before  a  run  was 
scored.  That  eclipses  old  William  Clarke's  famous  feat, 
when  he  bowled  sixty  balls  to  Fuller  Pilch  without  a  run, 
and  took  his  wicket  with  the  sixty-first. 

Clarke,  like  George  Giffen,  had  an  unconquerable 
aversion  to  taking  himself  off.  Once  he  kept  himself  on 
against  a  famous  amateur,  though  he  was  knocked  all  over 
the  field.  At  last  he  got  the  batsman  caught  off  his  bowl- 
ing, and  said  in  great  triumph,  "  There  !  I  knew  I  should  get 
'un ;  I  knew  I  should  get  'un."  To  which  the  retiring 
batsman  retorted,  "  Yes,  Mr  Clarke,  you  have  got  me,  but 
I've  made  eighty  rims'^ 

I  think  the  slowest  scoring  I  ever  saw  was  in  one  of  the 
England  v.  Australia  matches  at  the  Oval.  W.  G.  and 
Scotton  went  in  first,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour  only  20 
runs  were  up,  of  which  Scotton  had  made  3.  He  did  not 
add  to  his  score,  though  he  was  in  another  half-hour  or 
more.  After  lunch  W.  G.  let  out  gaily  and  knocked  up  a 
big  three-figure  score.  Without  doubt  such  slow  and 
cautious  play  has  not  increased  the  popularity  of  cricket. 
The  general  public  gets  wearied  of  such  dull  methods. 
And,  personally,  I  must  say  it  has  often  made  me  mad  to 
see  a  man  with  such  magnificent  hitting  powers  as  William 
Gunn  poking  and  pottering  away  as  if  he  didn't  know  how 
to  open  those  broad  shoulders  of  his. 

Some  players  think  that  cricket  would  be  rendered  less 
tedious  by  shortening  the  boundaries.  But  as  a  rule,  I 
think,  the  boundaries  are  short  enough — too  short  in  the 
opinion  of  many  good  cricketers,  who  grumble  because  the 
batsmen  have  not  to  run  out  every  hit  as  they  used  to  do 
in  those  "  good  old  days  "  so  dear  to  the  memory  of  your 
laudator  temporis  acti. 

If  grounds  were  big  enough  to  allow  of  this,  the  spectators 
would  hardly  be  within  sight  of  the  wickets  ;  and  how  many 
men  could  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  running  out  every 
hit  in  a  long   innings?     When    I    was  up  at   Cambridge, 


294  SPORTING    STORIES 

Mr  Roupell,  of  Trinity  Hall,  in  a  match  at  Parker's  Piece 
hit  a  7>  a  9)  and  a  lo  in  one  and  the  same  innings,  and  ran 
them  all  out.  I  have  seen  many  a  boundary  hit  at  Lord's 
and  the  Oval  which  would  have  kept  rolling  along  the  vast 
expanse  of  Parker's  Piece  till  eight  or  ten  runs  had  been 
scored,  for  it  would  have  taken  three  men  to  throw  the 
ball  up. 

The  mention  of  throwing  leads  me  to  express  my  satis- 
faction at  the  proposed  restoration  of  throwing  the  cricket- 
ball  to  its  old  place  in  the  'Varsity  Sports.  It  was  both 
an  attractive  and  a  useful  feature  in  these  games.  But  if  it 
is  restored,  I  hope  strict  provision  will  be  made  that  the 
throws  be  straight,  I  write  feelingly  on  this  point ;  for  I 
was  a  cricket-ball  thrower  myself,  and  I  can  recall  my 
disgust  when,  after  a  fair  and  straight  throw  of  just  over 
lOO  yards,  I  was  placed  second  to  a  man  who,  though  he 
could  sling  the  leather  a  great  distance,  could  not,  to  save 
his  life,  have  shot  a  ball  in  from  long-leg  within  20  yards 
either  side  of  the  wicket-keeper.  Two  stumps  should  be 
placed  at  a  distance  of,  say,  6  yards  from  one  another,  and 
90  or  100  yards  from  the  thrower ;  and  unless  the  ball  is 
thrown  betzveen  them  it  should  not  count. 

I  wonder  how  far  the  present  generation  could  throw. 
W.  H,  Game,  sometime  Captain  of  the  Oxford  Eleven,  was 
one  of  the  best  throwers  I  ever  saw.  I  believe  he  threw 
over  120  yards.  W.  G.  Grace,  at  an  athletic  sports 
meeting  at  the  Oval  made  three  consecutive  throws  of  no, 
117,  118  yards.  Bonnor,  the  Australian  giant,  whose 
magnificent  proportions  elicited  the  admiration  of  Mr 
Ruskin,  is  credited  with  136  yards;  but  how  far  that 
record  is  authentic  I  cannot  say.  A  good  story,  by  the 
way,  is  told  of  Spofforth,  the  "  demon  bowler."  When  he 
was  in  the  West  Country  in  1878  or  1880  a  Plymouth  man 
was  backed  to  throw  the  cricket-ball  against  another  for  ^5 
a  side.  The  backer  of  the  winner,  who  threw  well  over  100 
yards,  a  burly  gentleman  farmer,  turned  to  Spofforth  as  the 
winning  throw  was  measured,  and  said,  "  What  d'ye  think  of 
that  for  a  throw  ?  "  "  It's  not  a  bad  throw,"  replied  Spofforth 
carelessly.  "  Not  bad  !  "  exclaimed  the  other  indignantly  ; 
"  I    should   think    not,   indeed."       "  No,"    said    Spofforth 


CRICKET   PAST   AND   PRESENT    295 

quietly ;  "  its  not  a  bad  throw — but  nothing  to  make  a  fuss 
about."  "  Eh !  what !  Well,  damme,  I'll  lay  ;^50  you 
couldn't  equal  it."  "  Done,"  says  the  "  Demon  "  tranquilly ; 
"  I'll  take  that  bet,"  And,  without  taking  off  his  jacket,  the 
Australian  took  the  ball  and  sent  it  3  yards  farther  than 
the  Plymouth  man.  The  face  of  the  burly  farmer  as  he 
paid  the  ;^50  was  a  sight  not  to  be  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

ARE  CRICKETERS  SHORT-LIVED? 

Are  cricketers  short-lived  ?  This  question  has  exercised 
my  mind  for  a  long  while,  and  I  have  satisfied  myself  that 
cricketers  are  short-lived.  Let  anyone  make  a  list  of  the 
well-known  players  of,  say,  thirty  years  ago,  and  he  will  be 
astonished  to  find  how  few  are  living  and  how  many  died 
in  their  prime. 

It  is  very  rarely  that  a  professional  cricketer,  or  an 
amateur  who  has  played  as  regularly  as  a  professional, 
reaches  the  age  of  60,  and  the  majority  die  under  50. 
From  the  long  list  of  cricketers  I  have  known  during  the 
last  five-and-thirty  years  I  take  a  few  names  at  random. 
Hayward,  Tarrant,  Jupp,  the  two  Humphreys,  J.  G.  Shaw, 
Morley,  Wild,  Pilling,  Ullyet,  C.  J.  Ottaway,  G.  F.  Grace, 
C.  J.  Prune,  the  Rev.  C.  G.  Lane,  I.  D.  Walker,  Percy 
M'Donnel,  have  all  died  comparatively  young.  I  think 
I.  D.  Walker  was  the  only  one  who  exceeded  50,  and  he 
was  but  53.  George  Ullyet,  who  looked  strong  and  healthy 
enough  to  last  till  fourscore,  did  not  complete  his  forty- 
ninth  year. 

Of  course,  in  some  cases  there  has  been  hereditary  or 
inherent  disease,  and  in  others  hard  drinking  has  acceler- 
ated death.  But  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
the  average  cricketer's  life  is  not  a  long  one.  Cricketers 
are  peculiarly  liable  to  pulmonary  complaints.  George 
Lohmann  and  Arthur  Shrewsbury  suffered  in  this  way,  and 
William  Gunn  has  not  been  exempt  from  throat  and  chest 
troubles.  Our  villainously  treacherous  climate  has  much 
to  answer  for. 

The  fielder  must  be  a  very  Hercules,  like  "  W.  G.,"  if  he 

296 


ARE   CRICKETERS   SHORT-LIVED?   297 

does  not  experience  some  ill  effects  from  cold  and  exposure  ; 

fielding  searches  out  the  weak  points  in  a  man's  constitution. 
When  the  bowler  has  finished  his  over,  the  bitter  wind 
(and  how  often  the  wind  is  bitter)  has  a  fine  opportunity  of 
chilling  his  heated  frame.  Considering  the  extraordinary 
and  rapid  changes  of  climate  which  the  lightly  clad 
cricketer  has  to  face,  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  spell  of  life 
is  short. 

The  stupid  custom  of  playing  a  match  on  Easter  Monday, 
no  matter  how  early  in  the  year  that  festival  may  fall,  is 
simply  courting  illness,  and  is  cruel  to  the  players.  May  is 
bad  enough,  but  to  think  of  beginning  before  May  is  simply 
folly. 

In  the  days  of  the  old  Prize  Ring  it  was  not  the  punish- 
ment they  received  in  battle  which  played  havoc  with 
the  professional  bruisers,  but  the  exposure  to  inclement 
weather.  Fancy  men  stripping  to  the  waist  with  the  snow 
on  the  ground,  and  fighting  for  two  or  three  hours.  It  says 
little  for  the  humanity  of  sportsmen  of  the  old  school  that 
they  should  have  sanctioned  fights  in  the  depth  of  winter. 
I  would  have  no  matches  before  the  middle  of  May,  and  if 
cricketers  consulted  their  own  health  they  would  make  a 
stand  against  an  earlier  date. 

The  old-time  cricketers  were  long-lived  ;  but  they  clad 
themselves  differently,  and  they  didn't  play  anything  like  so 
many  matches  in  a  season.  I  remember,  some  thirty  years 
ago,  interviewing  John  Bowes,  who  was  then  in  his  ninety- 
first  year,  and  had  been  one  of  the  famous  "B  "  eleven  which 
Lord  Frederick  Beauclerck  mustered  to  contend  against 
England.  He  would  have  laughed  to  scorn  the  idea  that 
cricketers  were  short-lived,  and  with  good  reason.  So 
would  that  all-round  athlete  Edward  Hayward  Budd, 
whom  I  saw  knocking  the  balls  about  with  amazing  vigour 
when  he  had  passed  his  eightieth  year.  Fuller  Pilch,  too, 
with  whom  I  have  had  many  a  chat  during  Canterbury  week 
at  the  old  Saracen's  Head,  had  got  well  past  his  three- 
score and  ten  when  he  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil.  And 
"  Mr  Felix,"  one  of  the  greatest  batsmen  of  the  day,  lived 
till  past  fourscore. 

A  veteran  cricketer  who  retained  his  vigour  to  a  great 


298  SPORTING   STORIES 

age  was  Mr  Charles  Absolom,  a  master  butcher  of  North 
London  (not  to  be  confounded  with  my  old  friend  and 
comrade,  C.  A.  Absolom,  the  famous  Kentish  amateur 
and  Cambridge  "  Blue ").  Mr  Absolom  was  an  active 
and  vigorous  player  up  to  the  age  of  75.  He  played 
and  won  a  single-wicket  match  against  an  opponent 
half  his  age  when  he  was  within  a  few  months  of  his 
eightieth  year,  Mr  Absolom  died  at  the  age  of  90  in 
January  1908. 

Cricketers  now  do  not  take  the  same  care  of  themselves 
as  the  old  race  used  to  do.  Mr  Budd,  for  example,  took 
constant  and  regular  exercise,  and  kept  himself  perpetually 
in  good  condition.  Never  did  he  let  a  day  pass  without  at 
least  a  good  six-mile  walk  at  a  swinging  pace.  He  kept 
his  weight  scrupulously  to  12  st.,  the  weight  at  which  ex- 
perience taught  him  that  his  athletic  powers  were  at  their 
best.  He  was  very  temperate  in  his  diet,  and  utterly 
eschewed  smoking.  Now,  when  everyone  smokes,  Budd's 
abstention  from  the  soothing  weed  may  be  laughed  at  as 
an  old-fashioned  fad ;  but  some  of  the  best  sportsmen 
England  has  ever  seen — Hugo  Meynell,  Jack  Musters, 
Admiral  Rous,  George  Payne,  and  the  Rev.  Jack  Russell — 
never  smoked.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  smoking,  except 
in  great  moderation,  is  detrimental  to  prolonged  athletic 
exertion,  and  that  the  man  who  would  keep  his  eye  and 
nerve  at  the  highest  pitch  should  smoke  as  little  as  possible. 
I  have  known,  and  still  know,  great  cricketers  who  are 
great  smokers.  When  they  begin  to  fall  off  in  their  play, 
and  become  unaccountably  out  of  form,  the  last  cause  to 
which  they  would  attribute  their  decadence  would  be 
smoking.  Yet  I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  tobacco 
has  far  more  to  do  with  the  falling-off  than  they  would 
admit. 

Our  greatest  cricketer,  Dr  W.  G.  Grace,  keeps  himself  in 
condition  by  constant  exercise  all  the  year  round.  But 
then  he  has  the  constitution  of  an  elephant,  and  he  never 
smokes !  It  was  thought  a  marvellous  feat  of  endurance 
that  Mr  Budd  should  have  played  in  one  season  in  five 
consecutive  weeks  !  But  that  is  "  small  potatoes  "  compared 
with  the  cricketers  of  to-day,  who  play  from  May  to  the 


ARE   CRICKETERS   SHORT-LIVED?   299 

end  of  August.  Budd's  average  over  twenty  years  was  28, 
and,  considering  what  the  wickets  were  Hke  in  his  days, 
that  must  be  regarded  as  a  very  fine  performance.  Even 
now,  it  would  place  a  man  in  the  front  rank  of  batsman 
over  a  similar  number  of  years. 

I  remember  the  sensation  created  when  E.  M.  Grace 
appeared  in  first-class  cricket.  His  average  was  30  odd  in 
his  first  season.  But  old  cricketers  said  that  his  play, 
though  dashing,  was  not  cricket.  I  heard  two  old  members 
of  the  M.C.C.  make  that  remark  during  a  match  at  Lord's, 
when  E.  M.  ran  out  and  drove  a  ball  clean  over  the  bowler's 
head  into  the  pavilion. 

W,  G.  has  so  completely  overshadowed  the  feats  of  his 
elder  brother  that  people  forget  that  E.  M.  was  regarded 
as  a  prodigy.  He  had  a  wonderful  eye,  and  it  was  a  treat 
to  see  him  knock  the  bowling  all  over  the  shop,  though  his 
style  may  not  have  been  scientific.  His  fielding  was 
superb  ;  I  have  never  seen  a  finer  point.  And  there  was  a 
time  when,  with  his  slow  bowling,  he  could  stick  up  the 
best  batsman  in  England.  He  took  all  ten  wickets  in  the 
first  innings  of  Kent  against  M.C.C.  and  Ground,  to  say 
nothing  of  scoring  196  not  out.  And  the  best  of  the  joke 
was  that  he  had  not  been  actually  elected  a  member  of  the 
M.C.C,  and  it  was  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Chairman  of 
the  Kent  County  Club  that  he  was  permitted  to  play  as  a 
substitute,  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  on  this  occa- 
sion or  another  that  a  confident  appeal  for  l.b.w.  was 
made  by  the  bowler ;  but  old  Fuller  Pilch,  who  was 
umpiring,  to  the  amazement  of  all,  gave  him  "  not  out." 
When  remonstrated  with  afterwards,  Fuller  scratched  his 
head  and  said,  "  Well,  you  see,  I  had  never  seen  the 
young  gentleman  play,  and  I'd  heard  such  a  lot  about 
his  batting." 

Dr.  W.  G.  Grace  says  that  there  is  no  truth  in  the  story. 
But  I  have  heard  old  Fuller  taxed  with  it  in  the  bar- 
parlour  of  his  own  house,  the  Saracen's  Head,  at  Canterbury, 
and  he  certainly  did  not  deny  the  soft  impeachment,  but 
shook  his  head  with  a  cunning  smile,  which,  of  course, 
everyone  present  considered  to  be  "  confirmation  strong  as 
proof  of  Holy  Writ." 


300  SPORTING    STORIES 

I  once  heard  an  old  cricketer  say  of  E.  M.  Grace  :  "  He 
is  an  all-round  master  of  cricket.  He's  as  clever  as  a 
conjurer ;  I  believe  that  man  can  do  anything  and  everything 
in  the  whole  range  of  the  game,  except  keep  wicket  to  his 
own  bowling." 


CHAPTER  XL 

FOOTBALL  AND  ITS  TRADITIONS 

It  is  a  curious  feature  in  the  latter-day  recrudescence  of 
games  that  the  oldest  games  known  in  the  records  of 
Great  Britain  are  the  two  which  have  gained  the  greatest 
and  the  most  rapid  popularity — golf  and  football.  Foot- 
ball not  long  ago  was  unknown  outside  the  public  schools 
of  England.  But,  being  a  fighting  game — a  veritable  image 
of  war — it  was  bound  to  come  to  the  front.  And  it  has 
done  so  with  a  vengeance.  It  is  now,  of  course,  a  scientific 
game ;  but  the  essential  features  have  not  been  lost,  as  one 
may  learn  by  glancing  at  the  old  traditions  of  football. 

The  rough  old  Shrove-tide  game  was  pursued  with 
great  energy  at  Scone  in  Perthshire.  The  sides,  married 
and  single,  assembled  at  the  village  cross,  at  two  in  the 
afternoon  of  "  Pastern's  E'en,"  as  Shrove  Tuesday  is  called 
in  Scotland,  and  the  game  by  immemorial  custom  had  to 
last  till  sunset.  It  is  thus  described  in  Sir  John  Sinclair's 
Statistical  Account  of  Scotland:  "The  player  who  got  the 
ball  ran  with  it  till  overtaken  by  the  opposite  party ;  then, 
if  he  could  not  shake  himself  free,  he  threw  the  ball  from 
him,  unless  it  was  wrested  from  him  by  some  of  the 
other  party  ;  but  no  one  was  allowed  to  kick  it ! "  Here 
you  have  the  Rugby  game  in  embryo.  The  object  of  the 
married  men  was  to  "  hang  it" — that  is,  put  it  three  times 
into  a  small  hole  on  the  moor,  which  was  the  dool,  or  limit, 
on  the  one  hand ;  that  of  the  bachelors  was  to  "  drown  " 
the  ball,  or  to  dip  it  three  times  into  a  deep  place  in  the 
river.  If  neither  side  succeeded  in  winning  a  goal,  the  ball 
was  cut  into  two  equal  parts  at  sunset.  The  roughness  of 
the  game  gave  rise  to  a  proverb,  "  All  is  fair  at  Ball  of 
Scone,"      Tradition   said    that   the   match   was   instituted 

301 


302  SPORTING   STORIES 

centuries  ago,  and  every  man  in  the  district,  gentle  or 
simple,  had  to  turn  out  to  support  his  side  under  penalty  of 
a  fine.  In  1796  the  match  had  been  discontinued  for  a 
few  years,  and  it  has  never  been  revived. 

Up  to  about  sixty  years  ago  a  famous  match  took  place 
at  Derby  on  Shrove  Tuesday.  Ladies  filled  the  windows 
overlooking  the  market-place,  where,  at  2  p.m.,  the  men  of 
St  Peter's  met  to  do  battle  with  all  comers  from  the  other 
parishes.  The  ball  was  of  very  strong  leather — a  foot  in 
diameter  and  stuffed  hard  with  cork  shavings.  At  the 
appointed  hour  this  ball  was  tossed  into  the  air,  and  the 
mass  of  about  a  thousand  players  made  a  rush  at  it ;  the 
one  side,  whose  rallying  cry  was  "  St  Peter's,"  trying  to 
drive  the  ball  towards  the  gate  of  a  nursery  ground  about 
a  mile  from  town,  while  the  "All  Saints"  party  strove  to 
goal  the  ball  against  a  distant  water-mill  wheel.  So  great 
was  the  press  of  players  that  goals  were  generally  won  by 
stratagem,  and  very  seldom  by  direct  and  open  kicking. 

Many  stories  are  told  of  how  wily  players  brought  victory 
to  their  side.  Sometimes  the  shavings  were  taken  out,  and 
the  cover  smuggled  in  under  a  smock  frock  or  a  woman's 
shawl.  In  the  middle  of  a  big  scrimmage  a  cunning  fellow 
on  the  outside  threw  his  hat  in  the  air,  and  the  players 
broke  after  it,  while  he  picked  up  the  ball,  hid  it  under  his 
coat,  and,  sauntering  to  the  brook,  dropped  in  the  ball,  which 
he  did  not  follow  closely,  but  merely  kept  in  view.  The 
goal-keepers  saw  the  mass  of  players  far  off,  and  suspected 
nothing  until  he  slipped  past  them,  jumped  into  the  water, 
and  pushed  the  ball  in  triumph  against  the  wheel. 

The  following  day.  Ash  Wednesday,  was  the  "  Boys' 
Day,"  when  the  men  of  both  sides  attended  to  see  fair  play, 
and  to  decide  whether  claimants  were  small  men  or  big 
boys.  Disputes  were  far  more  frequent  on  this  day,  and  if 
a  cause  of  quarrel  cropped  up  on  Shrove  Tuesday  it  was 
put  off  for  decision  on  "  Boys'  Day."  This  game  was  put 
down  as  "  tending  to  foment  quarrels  and  endanger  life." 

The  ladies  of  Derby  graced  the  contest  with  their 
presence,  and  even  in  some  cases  with  more  active  assist- 
ance ;  but  the  fair  sex  in  Inverness  went  far  beyond  this, 
and  had  an  annual    match   of  their  own.      The   married 


FOOTBALL   AND    ITS   TRADITIONS    303 

ladies  played  the  spinsters  at  football  every  year,  and  it  is 
said  that  the  matrons  were  always  victorious. 

For  centuries  the  streets  of  London  were  infested  with 
the  players  at  what  Stubbes  calls  "  a  bloody  and  murther- 
ing  practice  rather  than  a  fellowly  sport  or  pastime."  In 
Elizabeth's  time  we  find  complaints  about  this.  Davenant's 
Frenchman  writes,  immediately  after  the  Restoration : — 

"  I  would  now  make  a  safe  retreat,  but  that  methinks  I  am 
stopped  by  one  of  your  heroic  games  called  football,  which 
I  conceive  (under  your  favour)  not  very  conveniently  civil 
in  the  streets,  especially  on  such  irregular  and  narrow  roads 
as  Crooked  Lane."  Pepys  tells  us  he  went  "  to  my  Lord 
Brouncker's,  in  the  Piazza,  Covent  Garden ;  the  streets 
full  of  footballs,  it  being  a  great  frost  " ;  while  as  late  as  a 
century  and  a  half  ago,  along  Cheapside  and  Covent  Garden, 
or  by  the  Maypole  in  the  Strand,  the  footballers  rushed  in 
disorderly  mobs,  to  the  terror  of  the  peaceful  pedestrians. 

North  of  the  Border,  football  was  a  favourite  sport ;  and 
the  facilities  it  gave  for  making  a  raid  across  the  Border, 
or  taking  some  hostile  clan  by  surprise,  added  a  charm  to 
the  game  in  the  moss-troopers'  eyes.  In  Border  records 
are  found  many  bloody  endings  to  meetings  ostensibly  for 
playing  football,  as  when  in  i6oo  Sir  John  Carmichael, 
the  Warden  of  the  Middle  Marches,  was  killed  by  a  band 
of  Armstrongs  returning  from  a  football  match.  Sir  Robert 
Carey,  in  the  Memories  of  Border  Transactions,  speaks  of  a 
great  meeting  of  the  Scottish  riders  to  be  held  at  Kelso, 
for  the  purpose  of  playing  football,  which  terminated,  how- 
ever, in  an  incursion  into  England. 

The  most  notable  event  in  the  history  of  Border  football 
was  the  famous  match  played  on  the  plain  of  Carterhaugh, 
on  4th  December  18 15.  The  opponents  were  those  old 
rivals,  the  "  Souters  ianglice,  shoemakers)  o'  Selkirk  "  and 
the  Earl  of  Home  with  his  retainers  in  the  Forest  of 
Yarrow.  Lord  Home,  while  at  Buccleuch's  lodge  at 
Bowhill,  challenged  Sir  Walter  Scott,  then  "  Shirra "  of 
Selkirk,  to  fight  out  at  football  the  ancient  feud  alluded 
to  in  the  old  ballad  beginning — 

"  'Tis  up  wi'  the  Souters  o'  Selkirk, 
An'  'tis  down  wi'  the  Earl  o'  Home." 


304  SPORTING   STORIES 

When  the  eventful  Monday  arrived,  players  and  specta- 
tors poured  from  all  sides  into  the  Carterhaugh.  "The 
appearance  of  the  various  parties,"  says  Scott,  "marching 
from  the  different  glens  to  the  place  of  rendezvous,  with 
pipes  playing  and  loud  acclamations,  carried  back  the 
imagination  to  the  old  times."  Lady  Anne  Scott  handed 
the  old  banner  of  the  Buccleuch  family  to  Master  Walter 
Scott,  the  younger,  of  Abbotsford,  then  a  boy  of  thirteen, 
who  rode  over  the  field  appropriately  dressed,  and  his 
horse  caparisoned  with  the  old  Border  housings,  bearing 
aloft  the  banner.  The  Duke  of  Buccleuch  threw  in  the  ball, 
and  the  game  began. 

So  numerous  were  the  players  that  for  long  the  only 
indication  of  play  was  a  heaving  of  the  dense  mass,  until 
two  stalwart  "  Flowers  of  the  Forest  "  got  the  ball  out. 
One  "  passed  "  to  the  other,  who  at  once  ran  off  towards 
the  woods  of  Bowhill,  intending  to  make  a  long  circuit  and 
carry  it  to  the  Yarrow  goal ;  and  he  would  probably  have 
succeeded  had  he  not  been  ridden  down  by  a  man  on 
horseback.  So  excited  were  the  players,  that  Lord  Home 
swore  that  if  he  had  had  a  gun  he  would  have  shot  the 
horseman.  The  tide  now  turned  against  the  men  of  the 
Forest,  and  after  an  hour  and  a  half's  play  a  mason  of 
Selkirk  gained  a  goal  for  his  side.  After  three  hours  more 
of  fierce  struggle,  however,  a  goal  was  won  for  Yarrow. 

Honours  being  now  equal,  and  the  feelings  of  the  players 
up  to  the  fighting-point,  it  was  thought  advisable  not  to 
play  a  deciding  game.  As  it  was,  in  the  heat  of  their 
passion  many  came  to  blows,  and,  as  an  eye-witness  says, 
"  the  ba'  had  nearly  ended  in  a  battle."  Scott,  before 
leaving  the  ground,  in  Lord  Dalkeith's  name  and  his  own, 
challenged  the  Yarrow  men  to  a  match  with  a  hundred 
picked  men  on  each  side.  But  this  match  never  took 
place  ;  and  it  was  just  as  well,  for,  as  Scott  told  Washington 
Irving  afterwards,  the  "  old  feuds,  rivalries,  and  animosities 
of  the  Scotch  still  slept  in  their  ashes,  and  might  easily  be 
aroused  :  the  old  clannish  spirit  was  too  apt  to  break  out." 

The  Yarrow  men  also  had  their  poet.  The  Ettrick 
Shepherd  (James  Hogg)  acted  as  aide-de-camp  to  Lord 
Home,  and  both  he  and  Scott  wrote  verses  specially  for 


FOOTBALL   AND   ITS   TRADITIONS    305 

the  occasion.  "  The  Lifting  of  the  Banner "  was  Scott's 
contribution,  from  which  I  quote  the  following  spirited 
stanzas : — 

"  From  the  brown  crest  of  Newark  its  summons  extending, 
Our  signal  is  waving  in  smoke  and  in  flame  ; 
And  each  forester  bhthe  from  his  mountain  descending 
Bounds  hght  o'er  the  heather  to  join  in  the  game. 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  let  forest  winds  fan  her. 
She  has  blazed  over  Ettrick  eight  ages  and  more  ; 

In  sport  well  attend  her,  in  battle  defend  her, 
With  heart  and  with  hand,  like  our  fathers  before. 

A  stripling's  weak  hand  to  our  revel  has  borne  her, 

No  mail-glove  has  grasp'd  her,  no  spearmen  surround  ; 

But  ere  a  bold  foeman  should  scathe  or  should  scorn  her, 
A  thousand  true  hearts  would  be  cold  on  the  ground. 

Then  strip,  lads,  and  to  it,  though  sharp  be  the  weather. 
And  if,  by  mischance,  you  should  happen  to  fall. 

There  are  worse  things  in  life  than  a  tumble  on  heather, 
And  life  is  itself  but  a  game  at  football. 

And  when  it  is  over,  we'll  drink  a  blithe  measure 

To  each  Laird  and  each  Lady  that  witness'd  our  fun, 

And  to  every  blithe  heart  that  took  part  in  our  pleasure, 
To  the  lads  that  have  lost  and  the  lads  that  have  won. 

Then  up  with  the  Banner,  let  forest  winds  fan  her. 
She  has  blazed  over  Ettrick  eight  ages  and  more  ; 

In  sport  we'll  attend  her,  in  battle  defend  her. 
With  heart  and  with  hand,  like  our  fathers  before." 

James  Hogg's  contribution  was  what  Lockhart  calls  that 
excellent  ditty  entitled  "  The  Ettrick  Garland  to  the  Ancient 
Banner  of  the  House  of  Buccleuch  "  : — 

"  And  hast  thou  here,  like  hermit  grey. 
Thy  mystic  character  unrolled. 
O'er  peaceful  revelles  to  play. 
Thou  emblem  of  the  days  of  old? 

All  hail !  memorial  of  the  brave. 

The  liegeman's  pride,  the  Border's  awe; 

May  thy  grey  pennon  never  wave 
O'er  sterner  field  than  Carterhaugh  ! " 

Cricket  has  found  its  vates  sacer  in  Mr  Norman  Gale,  who 
has  dedicated  a  pretty  little  volume  of  songs  to  the  game; 
but  the  only  bard  who  has  ever  made  reference  to  football 
is  he  who  brought  such  a  storm  of  execration  on  his  head 
by  writing  of  "  flannelled  fools  and  muddied  oafs."     And 

20 


306  SPORTING   STORIES 

indeed  there  is  not  much  in  the  exhibitions  of  professional 
football  to  fire  the  imagination.  The  football  of  the  old 
time,  as  described  in  Tom  Brown's  Schooldays,  was  far 
more  healthy  and  exciting  than  the  spectacle  of  one  band 
of  hired  professionals  contending  against  another  band  of 
hireling  experts.  The  spirit  of  professionalism  in  modern 
football  seems  to  me  utterly  inimical  to  the  interests  of 
true  sport.  But  I  have  hopes  of  better  things  in  the  future, 
for  I  remember  that  cricket  was  once  blighted  by  the  same 
mildev/,  and  yet  has  come  out  cleansed  and  wholesome. 
Cricket  has  risen  superior  to  such  shows  as  a  match 
between  two  teams  of  professionals.  Amateurs  and  pro- 
fessionals have  become  amalgamated  in  county  cricket, 
and  the  game  is  all  the  better  and  purer  for  the  amalgama- 
tion :  it  is  not,  as  it  once  was,  associated  with  betting 
and  bribery,  and  there  is  no  longer  among  professional 
cricketers  that  sordid  mercenary  spirit  which  degrades 
professional  football.  Until  amateur  and  professional 
footballers  are  similarly  amalgamated  and  bound  by 
restrictions  as  to  residence  and  qualifications  resembling 
those  imposed  upon  county  cricketers,  I  see  no  hope  of 
football  becoming  a  really  healthy  and  popular  sport. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

A  GOSSIP  ON  GOLF 

Many  Englishmen  have  found  in  the  great  Scottish  game 
a  delightful  mode  of  combining  exercise  and  amuse- 
ment without  the  expenditure  of  much  violent  exertion, 
yet  it  seems  but  yesterday  that  a  golf-club  was  a  rare  sight 
in  England.  Thirty  years  ago  I  remember  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  a  famous  Cambridge  cricketer,  telling  me  he  had 
joined  the  Liverpool  Golf  Club,  and  found  the  game  far 
more  fascinating  than  cricket.  I  smiled  sceptically.  I  had 
never  seen  the  outlandish  pastime,  but  I  could  not  believe 
that  any  sane  Englishman  could  prefer  it  to  cricket.  I 
know  better  now.  And,  though  I  cannot  admit  that  golf 
stands  on  the  same  level  as  the  grand  English  game,  I 
have  found  its  fascination  by  experience. 

Few  persons  nowadays  are  unfamiliar  with  the  weird 
nomenclature  which  used  to  puzzle  and  even  horrify  the  un- 
initiated, as  the  following  anecdote  will  prove  : — 

An  English  lady  travelling  from  Edinburgh  to  the  North 
via  "  the  Ferries  "  (it  was  before  the  days  of  the  Forth  and 
Tay  Bridges)  wrote  to  a  friend  describing  the  journey  : 
"  It  was  pleasant  enough  till  I  got  to  a  station  called 
Leuchars,  where  two  strange-looking  men  got  into  the 
carriage.  Their  clothes  were  shabby,  their  whole  appear- 
ance wild  and  unkempt,  and  though  they  spoke  good 
English  with  little  accent,  it  was  mixed  with  many  strange 
words  which  I  did  not  understand.  Niblick,  cleek, 
stimmie,  were  some  which  I  remember,  and  they  talked  in 
a  horrid  way  about  clearing  somebody's  nose,  and  running 
over  somebody's  grave  ;  but  the  worst  of  all  was  when  one 
told  the  other  that  he  had  been  in  Hell  that  morning,  but 
his  partner  had  got  him  out  with  a  spoon.     They  seemed 

307 


808  SPORTING   STORIES 

to  be  gentlemen,  but  must  have  been  mad ;  and  I  was  very 
glad  when  we  got  to  the  next  station." 

Even  now,  perhaps,  it  may  be  necessary  to  explain  that 
"The  Principal's  Nose,"  "  Walkinshaw's  Grave,"  and  "  Hell " 
are  three  well-known  bunkers  at  St  Andrews. 

It  is  odd  that  the  two  oldest  pastimes  known  in  these 
islands  should  have  come  to  the  front  again  and  distanced 
all  rivals  in  popularity.  I  refer  to  golf  and  football.  All 
our  other  sports  with  the  single  exception  of  polo,  and  that 
is  an  exotic,  are  mere  things  of  yesterday  compared  with 
the  antiquity  of  these  two. 

Horse-racing,  as  a  popular  sport,  dates  no  further  back 
than  the  last  quarter  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Cricket 
will  not  celebrate  its  bi-centenary  for  another  fifty  years, 
but  golf  and  football  were  flourishing  six  hundred  years  ago. 

Indeed,  they  were  so  enthusiastically  patronised  that  it 
was  deemed  necessary  to  restrict  the  indulgence  in  them 
by  Act  of  Parliament  both  in  Scotland  and  England, 
because  people  were  neglecting  archery  in  their  passion  for 
these  two  fascinating  games. 

Charles  I.  was  an  enthusiastic  golf  player,  and  it  is  alleged 
that  he  was  playing  on  Leith  Links  when  a  letter  was  put 
into  his  hand  announcing  the  first  news  of  the  rebellion  in 
Ireland.  He  did  not,  however,  display  on  this  occasion 
the  sang-froid  which  heroes  in  like  circumstances  have 
evinced  when  engaged  in  a  favourite  recreation. 

He  did  not  deliberately  finish  the  round  or  even  allow 
the  first  hole  to  be  decided,  but  in  great  agitation  rode  off 
to  Holyrood,  from  whence  he  next  day  set  off  for  London. 

The  Duke  of  York,  afterwards  James  II.,  was  also  a  keen 
golfer,  and  when  visiting  Scotland  in  1681-82,  in  the 
capacity  of  Commissioner  to  the  Scotch  Parliament,  was 
often  on  the  Leith  Links. 

Two  noblemen  in  the  Duke's  suite  insisted  that  the  game 
was  as  much  English  as  Scotch,  and  it  was  agreed  to 
decide  the  question  by  a  trial  of  skill.  The  two  noblemen 
were  to  be  on  one  side,  and  the  Duke  was  allowed  to 
select  an  Edinburgh  player  as  his  partner.  Inquiry  was 
made  for  the  champion  golfer  in  Edina,  and  universal 
suffrage  pointed  to  one  Patcrson,  a  poor  shoemaker,  whose 


A   GOSSIP   ON   GOLF  309 

ancestors  had  been  equally  famous  on  the  links.  With 
some  difficulty  Paterson  was  induced  to  play,  and  the  Duke 
and  his  humble  coadjutor  gained  the  day. 

For  what  stakes  the  match  was  played  is  not  stated,  but 
they  must  have  been  heavy,  for  Paterson's  share  was  so 
large  as  to  enable  him  to  build  a  house  in  the  Canongate, 
to  which  the  Duke  contributed  a  stone,  bearing  the  arms 
of  the  Paterson  family,  surmounted  by  a  crest  and  motto 
appropriate  to  the  distinction  which  its  owner  had  acquired 
as  a  golfer.  The  crest  is  a  dexter  hand  grasping  a  golf- 
club  with  the  motto  "  Far  and  Sure."  The  house  is,  I 
believe,  still  standing. 

It  has  been  a  severe  blow  to  the  amour  propre  of  the 
patriotic  Scot  to  find  his  own  national  game  gaining  a 
popularity  among  the  Southerner  greater  even  than  that 
which  it  enjoys  in  the  land  of  its  birth.  What  must  have 
been  the  feelings  of  Scotsmen  when  they  saw  their  best 
golfers,  both  amateur  and  professional,  beaten  on  their  own 
links  by  Mr  John  Ball  and  Mr  Hilton — who  are  not  only 
Englishmen,  but  amateurs? 

It  is  still  more  galling  to  the  Scotsmen  to  remind  them 
of  the  fact  that  the  oldest  golf  club  in  existence  is  to  be 
found  in  England ;  for  the  Royal  Blackheath  Golf  Club, 
founded  by  James  I.,  is  more  than  a  hundred  years  older 
than  "  The  Royal  and  Ancient  "  of  St  Andrews.  Another 
point  with  your  Scottish  golfer  is  the  true  pronunciation  of 
the  name  of  the  game — it  is  "goff,"  the  "/"  is  not  sounded. 
In  this  connection  I  recall  rather  a  good  story.  Some 
years  ago  a  friend  of  mine  was  advised  to  supplement  his 
practice  by  studying  a  handbook  of  the  game.  He 
accordingly  ordered  from  his  English  bookseller  a  "  Hand- 
book on  Goff,"  and  in  due  course  received  The  Hand 
of  Providence  exemplified  ijt  the  Life  of  f.  B.  Gough.  I 
need  hardly  remind  my  reader  that  at  that  time  the  name 
of  J.  B.  Gough,  the  great  temperance  orator,  was  very 
familiar. 

A  significant  tribute  to  the  popularity  of  golf  in  England 
was  paid  by  a  billiard-marker  at  Wimbledon,  who,  on 
being  asked  by  a  visitor  why  there  were  so  few  players 
at   the   table,   replied,   "  Oh,  it's  that   confounded   Scotch 


310  SPORTING   STORIES 

croquet  that  they  have  introduced  here.  It's  taking 
everyone  to  the  green  nowadays.  They  won't  play 
billiards,  sir,  as  long  as  they  can  get  that  confounded 
Scotch  croquet." 

There  is  a  story  told  of  a  golf  enthusiast  who,  when  too 
old  and  feeble  to  enjoy  his  favourite  pastime  out  of  doors, 
converted  his  billiard-table  into  a  miniature  links,  and  in 
that  form  satisfied  his  craving  for  the  game. 

A  gallant  general,  who  had  never  handled  a  golf-club  till 
he  was  well  on  in  years,  was  a  regular  attendant  at  the 
parish  church,  where  he  occupied  a  prominent  position  in 
the  front  of  the  gallery.  During  one  of  those  long  prayers 
— not  now  so  common  as  formerly,  and  when  standing  and 
not  kneeling  was  the  orthodox  posture — the  minister 
observed  the  eyes  of  many  of  the  congregation  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  gallery.  Looking  up,  he  saw  the 
general — always  a  pattern  of  strict  decorum — grasping  a 
large  psalm-book  tightly  with  his  left  hand,  and  guiding  it 
with  the  right ;  now  lifting  it  slowly  above  his  head,  then 
bringing  it  rapidly  down,  and  just  grazing  the  desk  in 
front  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction  on  his  face.  Fortunately 
the  pause  which  the  minister  made  brought  the  general  to 
"  attention,"  and  the  prayer  was  resumed. 

When  the  subject  of  golf  enthusiasm,  however,  is  brought 
on  the  tapis,  old  stagers  will  assure  you  that  the  "  cake  "  is 
taken  by  the  "  Cock  o'  the  Green,"  Alexander  M'Kellar, 
the  hero  of  one  of  Kay's  Portraits. 

He  spent  the  whole  day  playing  on  Bruntsfield  Links ; 
even  when  night  fell  he  could  not  tear  himself  away,  but 
played  the  "  short  holes "  by  lamplight.  As  M'Kellar 
could  not  play  on  Sundays,  he  acted  as  door-keeper  to 
a  church  in  Edinburgh.  One  day  Mr  Douglas  Gourlay, 
a  well-known  club-  and  ball-maker,  jocularly  placed  a 
golf-ball  in  the  plate  instead  of  his  usual  donation ;  as  he 
anticipated,  this  prize  was  at  once  secured  by  M'Kellar, 
who  was  not  more  astonished  than  gratified  by  the 
novelty  of  the  deposit. 

Apropos  of  playing  by  lamplight,  there  is  a  still  more 
remarkable  instance  of  nocturnal  golf. 

A  match  was  got  up  at  the  race  ordinary  at  Montrose, 


A   GOSSIP   ON   GOLF  311 

by  Mr  Cruickshank  of  Langley  Park  and  that  madcap 
Lord  Kennedy — both  good  players.  The  match  was 
three  holes,  for  ;^5oo  each  hole,  to  be  played  out  then  and 
there.  It  was  about  ten  or  half-past,  and  quite  dark.  No 
lights  were  allowed  except  one  lantern  placed  on  the  hole, 
and  another  carried  by  the  attendants,  that  they  might 
ascertain  to  whom  the  ball  struck  belonged.  Boys  were 
placed  along  the  course  to  listen  to  the  flight  of  the  balls, 
and  run  to  the  spot  where  a  ball  stopped.  But  the  extra- 
ordinary part  of  the  match  was  that  they  did  the  holes  in 
about  the  same  number  of  strokes  as  they  usually  took  in 
daylight.  On  an  average,  five  or  six  strokes  in  daylight, 
and  in  the  dark  six  or  seven. 

They  were,  however,  in  the  constant  habit  of  playing 
over  the  Montrose  course,  and  their  familiarity  with  it 
helped  them  greatly. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  old  Act  of  the  Scots 
Parliament  prohibiting  golf,  and  enjoining  the  practice  of 
archery  that  the  Scots  might  be  better  able  to  fight  the 
English  bowmen  with  their  own  weapons.  The  penalties 
for  default  and  the  time  of  practice  were  not  such  as 
would  have  recommended  themselves  to  Sir  Wilfrid 
Lawson  and  Sir  Andrew  Agnew.  Every  man  who  did 
not  attend  had  to  pay  twopence,  which  was  spent  in  liquor 
for  those  present,  while  the  day  and  hour  were  Sunday 
afternoon,  after  service ! 

Archery  and  golf  were  brought  into  antagonism  in 
another  way  on  Luffness  Links,  on  15th  October  1874.  The 
Rev.  Mr  Tait,  Chaplain  to  the  Royal  Company  of  Archers, 
played  a  match  with  bow  and  arrow  against  the  club  and 
ball  of  "  Old  Tom  "  Morris  over  the  Luffness  course.  The 
bow  beat  the  club  completely,  Mr  Tait  doing  the  round 
in  seventy-six,  while  "Old  Tom"  took  eighty- two.  A 
similar  match  has  been  recently  played  near  Birmingham 
with  a  similar  result. 

Of  the  dexterity  of  golfers  there  are  numberless  stories. 
The  Rev.  Mr  Carlyle  of  Inveresk  astonished  Garrick  and 
some  others  at  Windsor  by  the  nicety  of  his  play  in  driving 
a  ball  from  a  good  distance  through  a  narrow  gateway. 

The  late  "  Young  Tom  "  Morris  could,  it  is  said,  drive  a 


312  SPORTING   STORIES 

ball  off  a  watch  as  a  "  tee  "  without  doing  any  harm  to  the 
watch. 

On  one  occasion  at  the  Antipodes  skill  at  golf  was  of 
great  service.  The  rains  had  so  swollen  an  Australian 
river  that  the  mail  could  not  cross.  Guns,  slings,  arrows, 
were  tried,  but  all  failed  to  get  a  line  across.  At  last  a 
Scot,  a  keen  golfer,  volunteered  to  try  what  he  could  do 
with  the  clubs  and  ball  he  had  carried  with  him  to  his  new 
home.  A  long  string  was  attached  to  the  ball,  which  was 
carefully  "  tee'd  "  ;  then,  with  a  long,  steady  drive,  the  Scot 
sent  the  ball  flying  through  the  air  till  it  reached  the 
opposite  bank  and  re-established  communications. 

The  genuine  Scotch  "  caddie "  is  a  shrewd  observer  of 
men  and  things,  and  frequently  gifted  with  a  racy  humour 
of  his  own. 

"Lang  Willie"  was  a  well-known  figure  on  the  St 
Andrews  Links.  It  was  generally  believed  that  his  origin 
— at  any  rate  on  one  side  of  the  family — was  higher  than 
his  position.  On  the  occasion  of  Louis  Kossuth's  visit  to 
St  Andrews  a  public  dinner  was  to  be  given  in  his  honour, 
and  Willie  applied  for  a  ticket  to  the  Bailie  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  arrangements.  The  worthy  man  curtly 
refused  the  application,  saying  to  Willie  that  it  was  no 
for  the  likes  of  him  to  be  at  the  dinner.  "  No  for  the 
likes  of  me  !  "  was  Willie's  indignant  rejoinder.  "  I've  been 
in  the  company  of  gentlemen  from  eleven  to  four  o'clock 
maist  days  for  the  last  thirty  year,  and  that's  mair  than 
you  can  say  !  " 

A  well-known  St  Andrews  Professor  was  being  taught 
the  game  by  a  "  caddie."  He  was  lamenting  his  want  of 
skill,  and  wondering  at  his  apparent  inability  to  learn  an 
art  which  to  the  uninitiated  seems  so  simple.  He  asked  his 
"caddie"  for  an  explanation.  The  reply  was,  "Oh,  sir,  ye 
see,  onybody  can  teach  thae  laddies  "  (meaning  the  students 
of  the  University),  "  onybody  can  teach  thae  laddies  Latin 
and  Greek  ;  but  gowf,  ye  see,  sir,  gowf  requires  a  heid" 

But  more  surprising,  and  perhaps  even  less  gratifying  to 
the  player,  was  the  following  unfortunate  phrase  in  which 
a  French  "  caddie "  expressed  his  admiration.  The  Golf 
Club  at  Pau  is  the  oldest  south  of  the  Tweed,  with  the  sole 


A   GOSSIP   ON   GOLF  313 

exception  of  the  venerable  Blackheath  institution.  A 
young  player  wintering  at  Pau,  and  ignorant  of  the 
language,  had  for  his  "  caddie "  a  French  boy  who  knew 
no  English.  They  managed  to  get  on  by  the  language  of 
signs.  At  last  the  player  made  a  remarkably  good  approach 
shot,  and,  his  ball  lying  dead,  he  turned  round  with  an  air 
of  intense  satisfaction  and  triumph  to  his  "  caddie,"  who 
instantly  exclaimed,  "  Beastly  fluke ! "  It  was  all  the 
English  that  he  knew,  and  it  was  meant  as  a  compliment. 
But  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  could  scarcely  have  found 
a  phrase  less  calculated  to  flatter  the  vanity  of  the  player. 

Of  the  great  heroes  of  golf — Allan  Robertson,  Hugh 
Kirkaldy,  "Old  Tom"  Morris,  and  a  host  of  others — there 
is  much  to  tell,  but  it  should  be  told  in  a  less  frivolous 
spirit,  and  must  therefore  be  reserved  for  another  chapter ; 
for  there  is  nothing  more  annoying  to  the  true  golfer  than 
to  have  his  absorbing  pursuit  treated  lightly.  It  is  to  him 
what  whist  was  to  Sarah  Battle.  When  he  wants  to  "  un- 
bend his  mind,"  he  takes  up  a  volume  on  metaphysics,  or 
solves  abstruse  mathematical  problems,  or,  in  the  case  of 
a  few  flightier  and  more  juvenile  players,  indulges  in  digajne 
of  chess.  But  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  speak  of  golf  in  his 
hearing  as  a  game — he  might  brain  you  with  his  "  driver," 
and  in  any  case  his  language  would  probably  lift  the  hair 
from  your  head. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

GIANTS  OF  THE  LINKS 

I  CAN  remember  when,  as  a  small  lower-school  fag,  I 
used  to  be  dispatched  to  the  butcher's  on  the  morning  of 
a  football  match  for  a  couple  of  bullock's  bladders — one 
to  be  held  in  reserve,  the  other  to  be  inflated  to  fill  the 
leather  ball-covering  for  the  afternoon's  play.  The  infla- 
tion of  that  bladder  was  not  a  savoury  task.  Sometimes 
the  bladder  collapsed  in  the  middle  of  a  game,  and  then 
the  reserve  bladder  had  to  be  inflated  by  some  poor  devil 
of  a  fag,  whose  lungs  and  olfactory  nerves  were  sorely  tried. 

I  have  never  heard  that  the  butchers  found  themselves 
serious  losers  by  the  substitution  of  other  substances  for 
the  inflation  of  footballs ;  but  the  makers  of  the  old- 
fashioned  golf-balls  were  in  a  great  state  of  consternation 
when  the  new  gutta-percha  ball  first  came  into  vogue. 
For  centuries  golf-balls  were  only  made  in  one  way — a 
stout  leather  case  stuffed  hard  with  boiled  feathers.  The 
balls  were  expensive,  but  that  tended  to  keep  the  game 
select  and  aristocratic.  In  the  year  1848,  Campbell  of 
Saddell,  whose  hunting  songs  have  made  him  famous, 
first  introduced  gutta-percha  balls  at  St  Andrews.  Very 
soon  the  cheapness  of  the  new  ball  began  to  appeal  to  the 
canny  Scot,  and  the  manufacturers  of  the  old  feather  balls 
raised  a  fierce  protest  against  the  gutta-percha  innovation. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Allan  Robertson,  of  whom 
old  golfers  speak  with  bated  breath  as  the  greatest  golfer 
that  ever  lived,  just  as  veteran  cricketers  used  to  speak 
of  Fuller  Pilch  and  Alfred  Mynn  in  the  days  before 
"W.  G."  and  "Ranji."  Allan,  like  his  father  and  grand- 
father before  him,  was  not  only  a  great  player  but  a  famous 
maker  of  balls.     He  was  turning  out  upwards  of  2500  balls 

314 


GIANTS   OF   THE   LINKS  315 

per  annum  from  his  shop  when  this  "  accursed  gutta- 
percha" rival  made  its  appearance.  At  first  Robertson 
only  laughed  derisively  at  the  innovation.  Finally,  like  a 
sensible  man,  he  took  to  manufacturing  gutta-percha  balls 
himself,  though  he  never  would  admit  that  they  were 
better  than  the  old  feather  balls. 

Mr  Messieux's  famous  drive  of  308  yards  on  St 
Andrews  Links  with  the  old-fashioned  ball  remained  un- 
beaten until  Lieutenant  F.  G.  Tait  made  his  record  drive, 
the  exact  distance  of  which  I  forget  (I  fancy  it  was  340 
yards),  but  at  any  rate  it  was  a  long  way  in  front  of  Mr 
Messieux's.  Tait's  record  has  been  beaten  by  Home's 
drive  of  381  yards  at  North  Berwick  in  July  1909,  and 
Braid  is  said  to  have  driven  395  yards  at  Walton  Heath  on 
frozen  ground. 

Among  some  of  the  big  things  done  with  the  old  balls 
and  clubs  were  the  following : — 

A  bet  was  taken  in  1798  that  two  members  of  the 
Burgess  Golfing  Society  of  Edinburgh  could  not  send  balls 
over  the  spire  of  St  Giles'  Church.  The  champions  were 
allowed  to  use  six  balls  each,  and  the  question  was  decided 
early  in  the  morning,  to  prevent  accident  and  interruption. 
The  balls  were  struck  from  the  south-east  corner  of  Parlia- 
ment Square,  and  the  height,  including  base  distance,  is 
161  feet.  The  balls  passed  considerably  higher  than  the 
required  elevation,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  the  undertaking 
was  not  beyond  the  average  powers  of  first-rate  players. 

The  next  match  of  the  kind  was  to  drive  a  ball  over  the 
Melville  Monument  in  the  New  Town  of  Edinburgh.  The 
monument  is  only  150  feet  high  ;  but  the  parties  in  the 
second  match,  which  took  place  many  years  after  the  other, 
may  have  thought  that  golfing  had  so  much  degenerated 
that  the  prowess  of  the  last  century  could  not  be  maintained. 
The  wager,  however,  was  duly  won  by  a  Writer  to  the 
Signet. 

These  feats  seem  "small  pertaters"  to  the  modern 
golfer.  At  St  Andrews,  20  strokes  in  a  round  is  the 
difference  between  the  form  of  the  golfer  of  to-day  and 
the  golfer  of  ninety  years  ago.  Take  the  Gold  Medal  of 
the  Royal  and  Ancient.     From   1806  to  1834  the  course 


316  SPORTING   STORIES 

was  never  done  in  less  than  roo  strokes.  In  the  last- 
named  year  Mr  Oliphant  performed  what  was  then  thought 
the  extraordinary  feat  of  holing  out  in  97.  Up  to  1855 
that  score  was  only  once  beaten,  by  a  90,  and  there  were 
only  three  others  under  100.  Mr  MacGlennis  won  the 
Medal  with  88  in  1858 — a  score  which  remained  unbeaten 
till  Mr  Horace  Hutchinson  made  another  record  in  1884 
with  87,  which,  in  its  turn,  was  wiped  out  by  Mr  S.  Mure 
Ferguson  in  1893  with  79. 

But  Allan  Robertson's  feats  are  even  now  spoken  of 
with  awe,  and  his  admirers  will  not  admit  that  he  has  ever 
had  his  equal.  If  his  records  have  been  eclipsed,  it  is 
because  the  Links  are  easier  and  the  clubs  and  balls  better, 
not  because  the  skill  of  the  players  is  greater  than  his — 
for  that  could  not  be.  Allan  was  wont  to  be  up  and  on 
the  Links  before  the  sun  had  risen,  like  the  hero  of  Gray's 
"  Elegy  "— 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn." 

There,  with  the  Links  all  to  himself,  he  went  conscientiously 
over  the  course,  picking  up  fresh  wrinkles  in  every  round, 
till  none  could  compare  with  him  in  his  easy  style  and  his 
deadly  "  putting." 

Allan  Robertson  was  never  beaten.  He  and  Old  Tom 
Morris  played  in  a  foursome  for  ^400  against  the  two 
Dunns  at  Musselburgh,  St  Andrews,  and  North  Berwick. 
The  Dunns  won  in  a  canter  at  Musselburgh  by  13  holes 
and  12  to  play.  At  St  Andrews,  Robertson  and  Morris 
retrieved  2  or  3  holes.  When  the  last  round  began  at 
North  Berwick  the  Dunns  were  4  up  and  8  to  play.  Allan 
and  Tom,  however,  by  magnificent  play,  won  the  first  and 
second,  and  halved  the  third  hole,  won  the  fourth,  halved 
the  fifth,  and  won  the  sixth.  This  made  them  all  square 
with  2  to  play.  Allan  and  Tom  won  these  2  holes  and 
the  match  by  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  exhibitions 
of  cool,  determined  play  ever  seen.  Allan  was  renowned  for 
his  coolness  and  nerve,  and  his  play  was  never  deadlier 
and  surer  than  when  a  crisis  was  desperate.  It  was  said 
of    him,  as   "  keeper    of    the   green,"  that   "  he   arranged 


GIANTS   OF   THE   LINKS  317 

everything  on  the  golf-links  with  the  politeness  of  a 
Brummell  and  the  policy  of  a  Talleyrand."  He  died  on 
1st  September  1859,  and  it  was  a  surprise  to  many  to  learn 
that  he  was  but  five-and-forty. 

At  the  age  of  16  Young  Tom  Morris  burst  like  a  meteor 
on  the  golf  world,  beating  all  comers  in  a  professional 
tournament  at  Carnoustie  in  1867,  He  followed  up  that 
triumph  by  defeating  Willie  Park  for  the  Championship, 
and  was  victorious  on  every  green  on  which  he  appeared. 
For  three  years  in  succession  he  won  the  Challenge  Belt 
at  Prestwick,  and  when,  in  1871,  a  handsome  Cup  was 
substituted  for  the  Belt,  he  won  that  too.  His  score  of  ']'] 
for  the  18  holes  round  at  St  Andrews  remained  till  quite 
lately  the  record.  Old  Tom  died  full  of  years  and  honours 
on  24th  May  1908.  He  was  %J.  How  vigorous  he  was 
in  his  old  age  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  on  his 
eighty-fourth  birthday  he  went  over  the  St  Andrews  course 
in  the  same  number  of  strokes  as  the  years  of  his  life. 

But  Young  Tom  was  one  of  those  whom  the  gods  love, 
and  his  brilliant  career  was  suddenly  cut  short  when  he 
was  but  four-and-twenty.  On  Thursday,  2nd  September 
1874,  father  and  son  went  together  to  North  Berwick 
to  play  a  match.  Tommy  left  his  wife  perfectly  well. 
She  was  a  remarkably  handsome  and  healthy  young 
woman,  most  lovable  in  every  way.  But  on  Saturday 
that  fine  girl  had  her  first  child  and  died.  A  telegram 
was  sent  to  Tom,  who  told  his  son  they  must  leave  at 
once.  A  fine  yacht  was  put  at  their  disposal,  and  without 
the  weary  journey  to  Edinburgh  they  were  brought  across 
the  Firth  of  Forth.  Tom  did  not  tell  his  son  that  all  was 
over  till  they  were  walking  up  from  the  harbour.  Poor 
Tommy  went  about  for  a  little  while,  but  his  heart  was 
broken.  On  the  morning  of  Christmas  Day  they  found 
him  dead  in  his  bed  ;  and  so  Tommy  and  his  poor  young 
wife  were  not  long  divided. 

It  has  been  objected  that  golf  is  trying  to  the  temper 
of  even  veteran  players  and  sorely  provocative  of  profane 
language.  Dr  Boyd  of  St  Andrews  tells  the  following 
story  illustrative  of  this  peculiarity  of  golfers  : — 

"  On  a  day  in  April  I  walked  round  the  Links  with  a 


318  SPORTING   STORIES 

'  foursome.'  My  brother  Alexander  and  Lord  Colin 
Campbell  played  against  Tulloch  and  another,  and  it  was 
extraordinary  how  peppery  they  became.  Tulloch  and 
his  partner  were  being  badly  beaten,  and  when  Tulloch 
made  some  suggestion  to  his  partner,  the  latter  brandished 
his  club  in  the  air  and  literally  yelled  out,  '  No  directions  ! 
I'll  take  no  directions ! '  Tulloch  used  to  complain  that 
an  old  story  had  come  to  be  told  of  him.  '  How  is  the 
Principal  getting  on  ? '  was  asked  of  one  of  the  caddies. 
'  Ah ! '  said  the  caddie,  with  an  awe-stricken  face,  '  he's 
tappin'  his  ba's,  and  damnin'  awfu'.' 

But  perhaps  even  more  painful  to  the  onlooker  is  the 
suppressed  swear  when  the  player  is  debarred  by  his  pro- 
fession from  the  relief  so  welcome  to  the  profane  layman. 

A  well-known  Anglican  divine,  golfing  at  St  Andrews, 
got  into  trouble  in  a  bunker.  Stroke  followed  stroke,  but 
he  couldn't  get  out.  At  length  his  lips  moving  with 
extreme  irritation  and  the  effect  of  continued  muscular 
effort,  his  caddie  interposed,  and  coming  up  to  the  Rev. 
Canon  exclaimed,  "  Wull  I  say  it  for  ye,  sir?" 

It  is  said  of  a  fair  golfer  who  has  been  more  than  once 
Ladies'  Champion  that  a  caddie  advised  her,  whenever  she 
"  felt  bad,"  just  to  slip  behind  a  furze-bush  or  a  hillock  and 
write  "  the  words  "  on  the  sand  with  her  club. 

Mr  Balfour  relieves  his  feelings  by  such  mild  expletives 
as  "  Dear  me  ! "  "  Botheration  !  "  and  the  like,  but  the 
emphasis  he  puts  into  his  tone  quite  serves  the  purpose. 

The  Hon.  and  Rev.  Canon  Edward  Lyttelton,  Head 
Master  of  Eton,  was  one  of  the  finest  cricketers  that  Eton 
and  Cambridge  ever  turned  out,  and  was  a  member  of  the 
eleven  which  in  1878  lowered  the  colours  of  the  hitherto 
invincible  Australian  team.  I  cannot  recall  any  University 
eleven  that  could  compare  with  that  which  included 
Edward  and  Alfred  Lyttelton,  C.  T.  Studd,  A.  G.  Steel, 
A.  P.  Lucas,  F.  J.  Ford,  and  P.  H.  Horton.  It  is  not  to  be 
expected,  therefore,  that  he  should  feel  much  enthusiasm 
or  admiration  for  the  game  of  golf  In  an  address  on  the 
"  Use  and  Abuse  of  Athletics  "  he  said  : — 

"  As  people  got  on  in  life,  they  took  to  golf  He  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  golf  was  good  for  elderly  men, 


GIANTS    OF   THE    LINKS  319 

but  not  for  boys,  and  he  hoped  it  would  never  be  extended 
to  girls'  schools.  It  was  lacking  in  co-operation."  I  agree 
with  him  to  a  certain  extent.  I  don't  think  golf  is  a  good 
game  for  boys.  What  is  wanted  in  boys'  games  is  some- 
thing to  promote  a  spirit  of  fellowship,  to  foster  esprit  de  corps 
and  not  to  encourage  individual  prowess  and  the  natural 
conceit  which  it  engenders.  The  same  argumentwould  apply 
to  girls'  schools,  but  if  Canon  Lyttelton  means  to  imply  that 
it  is  not  a  fit  game  for  ladies — I  beg  to  differ  from  him. 
A  naturally  graceful  woman  playing  golf  in  good  style  is 
a  most  attractive  sight,  though  the  athletic  girl  graduate 
of  Girton  and  Newnham  might  resent  that  point  of  view  as 
an  insult.  But  the  introduction  of  ladies  into  the  game 
robs  of  its  point  the  story  of  an  enthusiastic  old  golfer  who, 
on  hearing  that  there  had  been  an  addition  to  the  family  of 
an  intimate  friend,  asked  anxiously,  "  Is  it  a  gowffer?" 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  POLO 

What  is  the  oldest  game  extant?  Golfers  point  with 
pride  to  an  antiquity  of  at  least  six  centuries.  Footballers 
claim  an  equal,  if  not  greater,  antiquity  for  their  game. 
But  they  are  things  of  yesterday  compared  with  polo, 
which  can  trace  its  origin  back  over  six  and  twenty 
centuries.  When  you  once  get  groping  back  after  the 
origins  of  games  there  is  no  telling  where  to  stop.  Still, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  game  of  ball,  played  on  horse- 
back with  sticks,  was  in  vogue  as  far  back  as  the  days  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  who  saw  it  played  in  Persia  when  he 
invaded  and  conquered  that  empire  three  centuries  and  a 
half  before  the  Christian  era. 

Persia  was  the  cradle  of  polo.  There,  among  a  race 
unequalled  for  horsemanship,  the  nursling  first  saw  the 
light  and  was  nurtured  into  adolescence.  The  Persian 
name  for  polo  is  "  chaugan,"  which  I  believe  signifies  "  four- 
sided."  Polo  is  derived  from  the  Tibetan  word  pulu, 
which  means  a  ball  made  from  a  knot  of  willow — a  wood 
as  sacred  to  that  game  as  it  is  to  cricket.  The  Persian 
poet,  Firdusi,  frequently  mentions  the  game.  Now,  Firdusi 
wrote  his  Schah  Nanieh  (Book  of  Kings)  about  the  time 
that  Canute  the  Dane  became  King  of  England  and 
addressed  his  memorable  rebuke  to  his  flattering  courtiers 
when  the  sea  showed  itself  no  respecter  of  his  royal  person. 
That  alone  gives  the  game  a  reputable  and  authentic 
antiquity  of  goo  years,  and  Firdusi  speaks  of  the  pastime 
then  as  of  great  antiquity.  There  is  an  illuminated  MS. 
of  Firdusi's  poems  in  the  British  Museum  which  contains 
an  elabourate  illustration  of  chaugan  as  it  was  then  played. 
The  sticks  which  the  players  are  represented  as  using  are 

320 


THE   ORIGIN   OF   POLO  321 

almost  exactly  similar  to  those  in  use  at  the  present  day, 
and  the  horses,  though  not  precisely  ponies,  are  Arabs 
under  15  hands  with  small  heads  and  tapering  muzzles. 

The  works  of  another  great  Persian  poet,  Hafiz,  a  con- 
temporary of  our  own  Chaucer,  teem  with  allusions  to  the 
game.  "  May  the  heads  of  your  enemies  be  your  chaugan 
balls,"  is  the  grim  wish  with  which  the  poet  flatters  his 
imperial  patron.  And  the  favourite  national  pastime 
supplied  him  with  metaphors  of  a  less  blood-thirsty  sort. 
"  Man,"  he  writes,  "  is  a  ball  tossed  into  the  field  of  exist- 
ence, driven  hither  and  thither  by  the  chaugan  stick  of 
destiny  wielded  by  the  hand  of  Providence."  But  chaugan 
supplied  the  Persian  poet  with  an  image  descriptive  of  the 
tenderest  of  human  emotions  :  "  The  heart  of  the  lover  is 
the  ball,  while  the  curling  lovelock  of  his  charmer  is  as 
the  curved  club  that  impels  it." 

In  its  early  days,  however,  polo  or  chaugan  was  not 
regarded  as  a  very  reputable  pastime.  There  it  resembles 
cricket  and  football.  In  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  to  be  a  cricketer  or  the  associate  of  cricketers  was 
looked  upon  as  the  sure  mark  of  a  "  rake-hell,"  a  man  of 
loose  character  and  abandoned  habits ;  whilst  football  and 
golf  have  been  denounced  as  demoralising  pastimes  in 
more  than  one  old  Act  of  Parliament.  But  we  have 
changed  all  that,  and  society  is  proud  of  its  famous 
cricketers,  golfers,  poloists,  and  footballers. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  polo,  to  give  it  its  modern  name, 
was  popular  all  over  Central  Asia,  and  particularly  in  Tibet, 
from  which  country  it  permeated  to  India  and  thence 
to  Great  Britain.  In  a  quaint  old  book,  entitled  The 
Adventures  of  the  Three  Sherleys,  written  by  one  George 
Mainwaring  and  descriptive  of  a  voyage  undertaken  by  Sir 
Anthony  Sherley  and  his  brother  to  the  court  of  Shah 
Abbas,  King  of  Persia,  in  1 509,  the  following  description  of 
the  game  is  given  : — 

"Before  the  house  there  was  a  very  fair  place,  to  the 
quantity  of  some  ten  acres  of  ground,  made  very  plain ; 
so  the  King  went  down,  and  when  he  had  taken  his  horse, 
the  drums  and  trumpets  sounded.  There  were  twelve 
horsemen  in  all,  with  the  King  ;  so  they  divided  themselves, 

21 


322  SPORTING   STORIES 

six  on  the  one  side,  and  six  on  the  other,  having  in  their 
hands  long  rods  of  wood  about  the  bigness  of  a  man's 
finger,  and  at  one  end  of  the  rod  a  piece  of  wood  nailed 
on  like  a  hammer.  After  they  were  divided,  and  turned 
face  to  face  there  came  one  in  the  middle  and  threw  a  ball 
between  both  the  companies,  and  having  goals  made  at 
either  end  of  the  plain,  they  began  their  sport,  striking  the 
ball  with  their  rods  from  one  to  the  other,  in  the  fashion 
of  our  football  play  here  in  England  ;  and  ever  when  the 
King  had  gotten  the  ball  before  him  the  drums  and 
trumpets  would  play  one  alarum,  and  many  times  the 
King  would  come  to  Sir  Anthony  and  ask  him  how  he 
did  like  the  sport." 

Major-General  Sherer  is  said  to  have  been  the  Father  of 
European  Polo  in  India,  and  his  first  introduction  to  the 
game  was  in  Assam,  whilst  he  was  stationed  at  Cachar. 
Thence  he  brought  it  to  India  in  1854.  But,  though  it  was 
played  by  British  officers  in  the  North-Western  Provinces 
under  the  auspices  of  General  Sherer  in  the  early  fifties,  it 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  generally  known  in  British 
India  till  at  least  eight  years  later.  And  General  Stewart, 
C.B.,  brother  of  Colonel  Robert  Stewart,  Superintendent 
of  Cachar,  claims  to  have  introduced  it  to  his  brother 
officers  in  India,  as  I  gather  from  the  following  account 
given  by  himself: — 

"I  visited  my  brother  in  September  1862  and  saw  the 
game  played  at  Cachar;  and,  returning  with  sticks  and 
balls  in  October  to  Barrackpore,  I  formed  a  club  there, 
where  we  practiced  for  some  months,  when  the  game  was 
taken  up  by  some  Calcutta  men,  who  also  got  up  a  club. 
The  first  match  was  played  between  Barrackpore  and 
Calcutta,  on  the  Calcutta  Maidan,  early  in  1863.  The  only 
members  of  the  Barrackpore  Club  whose  names  I  remember 
were,  besides  myself,  Colonel  Arthur  Broome,  Bengal 
Cavalry ;  the  late  Colonel  J.  Broome,  Punjab  Cavalry  ; 
the  Hon.  R.  Napier  (Lord  Napier)  ;  Colonel  Apperley,  late 
15th  Bengal  Cavalry;  a  veterinary  surgeon  of  the  name 
of  Farrell ;  and  a  Captain  King,  since  deceased.  The 
Calcutta  players  were  chiefly  merchants,  one  of  whom 
went  by  the  name  of  'Bobbie    Hills' — a  little  fellow — I 


THE   ORIGIN    OF   POLO  323 

think  a  relation  of  the  General  Hills  who  was  in  Cabul 
with  Roberts.  On  my  way  up  to  Peshawar,  in  May  1863, 
I  stayed  a  few  days  with  my  brother  at  Cawnpore  and 
Mian  Mir,  and  at  each  of  those  places  I  started  the  game, 
having  brought  up  sticks  and  balls  for  the  purpose.  Again, 
in  Peshawar,  during  1863-64,  polo  or  '  kangai,'  as  it  was 
then  called,  was  played  regularly  after  I  had  started  it. 
'  Polo '  is  the  Tibetan  name  of  the  game.  I  have  played 
at  Skardo  with  the  Tibetans ;  they  use  a  different  stick 
or  club.  The  stick  now  used  in  India  is  the  original 
'  kangai '  stick.  Bamboo  balls  were  always  used.  As 
many  as  seven  played  on  a  side,  two  generally  keeping 
goal.  The  ponies  were  12-2,  and  the  game  was  by  no 
means  fast." 

The  game  as  at  first  played  in  India  differed  greatly  from 
what  is  now  known  as  polo.  The  rules  of  the  game  were 
determined  at  a  meeting  of  the  Cachar  Kangjai  Club 
(that  is  the  Tibetan  name  of  the  game)  held  at  Silchar  on 
1st  January  1863.  Rule  9  is  as  follows:  "Any  player 
may  interpose  his  horse  before  his  antagonist's  so  as  to 
prevent  his  antagonist  from  reaching  the  ball,  whether  in 
full  career  or  at  the  slow  pace,  and  this  despite  the  im- 
mediate neigbDourhood  of  the  ball.  Spurs  and  whips  may 
be  freely  used,  but  only  on  the  rider's  own  horse :  to  beat  an 
adversary's  horse  is  foul  play."  Rule  22  provides  against 
what  to  our  notions  seems  a  startling  contingency:  "  It  is 
to  be  understood  that  no  player  shall  be  under  the  influence 
of  bhang-gouja  or  spirituous  liquors." 

To  anyone  who  has  seen  the  present  "  galloping  game  " 
played,  the  infringement  of  these  rules  would  seem  to 
entail  consequences  too  appalling  to  contemplate.  Imagine 
a  wild  Irishman,  half-drunk  with  "  bhang "  or  whisky, 
dashing  his  pony  in  front  of  an  opponent  at  full  gallop,  or 
lashing  his  opponent's  pony  with  his  whip,  to  say  nothing 
of  driving  his  spurs  into  the  said  pony.  Polo  under  such 
circumstances  would  be  indeed  a  "dangerous  game,"  a  free 
fight,  and  the  result  would  be  something  like  that  which 
ensued  on  a  memorable  occasion  in  Devonshire. 

During  a  sham  fight  a  Captain  Prettyjohn  of  the  Devon- 
shire Yeomanry  was  ordered    to  retreat  before   a  charge 


324  SPORTING   STORIES 

of  the  enemy.  "  Retrait ! "  said  the  Captain.  "  Retrait 
mean'th  rinning  away,  I  zim  ;  then  it  shall  never  be  told  up 
to  Dodbrook  Market  that  Captain  Prid'gen  and  his  brave 
troop  rinned  away." 

Accordingly,  as  the  enemy  came  on,  he  shouted  to  his 
troop,  "  Charge,  my  brave  boys,  charge ;  us  baint  voxes, 
and  they  baint  hounds  ;  us'll  face  em  like  men." 

The  collision  was  awful — men,  horses,  and  accoutrements 
strewing  the  ground  on  every  side ;  several  troopers  being 
more  or  less  injured,  while  one  positively  refused  to  mount 
again,  saying,  "  I've  brok'd  my  breeches  already,  Cap'n,  and 
I  won't  mount  no  more." 

These  rules  were  revised  in  1887  to  meet  the  require- 
ments of  the  new  game,  the  greater  increase  in  the  size  of 
the  ground  and  the  height  of  the  ponies,  and  the  subordina- 
tion of  individual  play  to  combination.  The  ground  was 
increased  from  200  yards  by  120  yards  to  300  yards  by  200 
yards;  the  height  of  the  ponies  from  12-2  to  13-3.  Each 
game  to  consist  of  six  periods  of  eight  minutes  each,  ex- 
clusive of  stoppages.  Time  not  to  be  called  while  the  ball 
is  in  play,  unless  the  game  shall  have  lasted  forty-eight 
minutes,  when  time  shall  be  called  irrespective  of  the  ball 
being  in  play.  Polo  has  developed  from  the  slow,  pottering, 
dribbling  game  of  thirty  years  ago  into  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  and  exciting  of  sports  both  to  the  players  and 
to  the  spectators.  Of  the  introduction  of  polo  into  England 
and  the  prowess  of  individual  players  I  shall  discourse  in 
my  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

HOW  POLO  CAME  TO  ENGLAND 

One  day  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1869  three  young 
subalterns  of  the  loth  Hussars  at  Aldershot  found  time  hang- 
ing heavily  on  their  hands  when  one  of  them  stumbled  upon 
an  article  in  the  Field  which  interested  him.  It  was  the 
account  of  a  game  played  among  the  Manipuris,  a  hill-tribe 
on  the  borders  of  Tibet,  then  unknown  to  the  bulk  of 
Englishmen,  though  the  name  is  familiar  enough  now  by 
reason  of  the  massacre  of  1891,  when  Colonel  Skene  and 
Messrs  Quinton,  Grimwood,  Cossins,  and  Melville  were 
treacherously  murdered.  There  can  be  few  who  do  not 
remember  the  romantic  escape  and  heroic  courage  of  Mrs 
Grimwood,  the  wife  of  the  murdered  Resident,  and  the 
splendid  gallantry  of  Lieutenant  Grant  and  his  handful  of 
Gurkhas,  fitly  rewarded  by  the  Victoria  Cross.  The 
description  of  this  game  moved  the  languid  interest  of  the 
subalterns.  "  By  Jove !  it  must  be  a  goodish  game.  I 
vote  we  try  it,"  said  the  biggest  of  the  three,  "  Chicken  " 
Hartopp,  whose  fame  as  a  devil-may-care  rider  is  still  green 
in  both  the  Quorn  and  Meath  countries.  So  three  chargers 
were  saddled,  and,  with  crooked  sticks  and  a  billiard-ball, 
they  made  the  first  attempt  to  play  polo  in  England.  It 
could  scarcely  be  called  a  success,  but  all  three  saw  that  there 
were  possibilities  in  the  game  if  played  on  ponies  such  as 
the  Manipuris  used.  The  next  step  was  the  purchase  of 
seventeen  ponies  of  all  sizes  and  shapes.  And  then  the  game 
caught  on  like  fire  among  the  officers  of  the  lOth,  who 
speedily  inoculated  their  brothers  of  the  9th  Lancers  with 
their  enthusiasm  for  the  new  game.  The  first  regular 
match  played  in  this  country  was  between  teams  of  those 
regiments,  eight  a   side.     The  fame  of  this  "  hockey  on 

325 


326  SPORTING    STORIES 

horseback "  rapidly  spread.  The  Blues  and  the  Life 
Guards  were  the  next  to  take  it  up.  Then  Captain  F. 
Herbert,  on  quitting  the  9th  Lancers,  started  the  first 
County  Club  in  Monmouthshire.  Other  shires  followed 
suit,  and  the  game  became  popular  with  civilians,  and 
especially  with  hunting  men. 

I  made  my  first  acquaintance  with  polo  in  1874.  I  was 
then  editing  a  journal  of  sport,  in  which  some  disparaging 
remarks  on  the  game  had  appeared,  and  I  was  courteously 
invited  by  the  Secretary  of  the  Polo  Club  to  come  down 
to  Hurlingham  and  judge  for  myself  whether  the  game 
deserved  the  criticism  which  one  of  my  contributors  had 
passed  upon  it.  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  was  quite 
satisfied  that  polo  was  a  fine,  manly  game,  offering  grand 
opportunities  for  the  display  of  skill  in  horsemanship.  But, 
compared  with  what  it  has  since  become,  the  polo  of  five- 
and-twenty  years  ago  was  a  very  slow  game.  The  dribbling 
of  that  day  has  given  place  to  clean,  hard  hitting  and  clever 
passing ;  there  is  fierce  and  exciting  galloping  where  there 
was  little  more  than  cantering.  The  ponies  are  bigger,  the 
players  have  ten  times  the  dash  and  skill,  and  the  reduction 
in  the  number  of  players  from  eight  to  four  gives  far  more 
scope  for  quickness  and  scientific  combination.  Polo,  as  it 
is  now  played,  is  a  splendid  game  to  watch — far  more 
stirring  than  football  or  hockey  ;  and,  for  my  part,  next  to 
a  cricket  match,  I  would  rather  see  a  polo  match  than  any- 
thing else  of  the  kind.  Perhaps  if  I  were  not  a  cricket 
enthusiast  I  should  place  polo  first  of  all  games. 

In  those  remote  days  of  the  seventies  the  Duke  of 
Connaught  was  a  polo-player.  A  pair  of  conspicuous 
players,  too,  were  the  Murriettas,  who  were  always  mounted 
to  perfection.  "  Chicken  "  Hartopp  was,  despite  his  great 
weight  and  size,  an  excellent  poloist,  and  threw  himself 
into  it  with  characteristic  energy  whilst  the  fit  lasted.  But 
the  "  Chicken  "  was  too  many-sided  a  man  to  concentrate 
his  mind  on  one  pastime  for  any  length  of  time. 

Another  noted  poloist  of  that  day  was  the  late  Horace 
Rochford  of  Colgrennan,  County  Carlow,  who,  though  he 
was  60  when  he  took  up  the  game,  proved  himself  as  good 
on  the  polo-ground  as  he  was  in  the  hunting-field.     He  was 


HOW   POLO   CAME   TO   ENGLAND   327 

one  of  the  famous  County  Carlow  team,  comprising,  besides 
himself,  the  well-known  M.F.H.  Robert  Watson,  his  son 
John  (the  Master  of  the  Meath),  Stewart  Ducket,  and 
James  Butler,  who  astonished  the  polo  world  by  beating 
the  crack  team  of  the  8th  Hussars  by  seven  goals 
to  none. 

"  Bill  "  Beresford  was  a  capital  player  in  his  day,  and  so 
were  three  brother  officers  of  his  in  the  9th  Lancers — Dick 
Clayton,  Chisholm,  and  "  Tim  "  Butson,  now,  alas  !  all  gone 
over  to  the  majority.  Clayton  was  killed  at  Delhi  in  1877 
whilst  playing  the  game  he  loved  so  well,  whilst  Chisholm 
and  Butson  both  died  soldiers'  deaths  in  the  Afghanistan 
campaign. 

The  finest  team  of  poloists  of  the  new  school  was  the 
Sussex  quartette,  Frank  Mildmay,  M.P.  for  Totnes,  and 
the  three  brothers  Peat.  Mildmay,  considering  his 
apparently  slight  physique,  was  as  hard  a  hitter  as  one 
could  wish  to  see,  and  his  mounts  were  always  Ai. 
Never  was  there  a  lovelier  pony  than  his  Picquet,  which  he 
sold  to  Mr  Whitney  of  New  York  for  ^450.  The  three 
brothers  Peat  are  generally  admitted  to  have  been  the 
most  brilliant  exponents  of  the  game  ever  seen  in  England  ; 
and  with  their  stud  of  ponies,  trained  to  perfection  by 
themselves,  they  would  have  been  hard  to  match  or  to 
beat  the  wide  world  over.  There  was  no  "  forward  "  who 
could  dodge  and  twist  through  his  horsemen  like  "  Johnnie  " 
Peat,  and  when  he  got  a  fair  drive  at  the  ball  it  "  went." 
His  elder  brother,  Arthur,  was  as  quick  and  clever  a  "  back  " 
as  the  other  a  "  forward,"  and  Alfred  "  the  Boy,"  as  good 
as  either  at  "  half-back."  All  three  had  wonderful  eyes  for 
the  ball,  and  were  dead  on  it  no  matter  how  terrific  the 
pace.  This  famous  team  was  never  beaten,  and  won  the 
County  Challenge  Cup  five  years  in  succession. 

Ireland  could  show  the  equal  of  any  player  in  the  three 
kingdoms  in  John  Watson,  the  popular  master  of  the 
Meath  Hounds.  There  is  no  better  judge  of  a  horse  or 
a  pony,  and  his  skill  in  training  is  equal  to  his  judgment 
in  buying.  As  captain  he  has  led  the  famous  "  Freebooters  " 
to  victory  in  many  a  hard-fought  fight  in  both  hemispheres 
— for  the  States  knew  his  prowess  as  well  as  the  old  country. 


328  SPORTING   STORIES 

Long-limbed  and  muscular,  he  was  an  ideal  player,  and 
when  he  has  had  such  a  marvel  in  ponies  as  "  Fritz  "  under 
him,  the  feats  he  performed  were  astounding. 

T.  S.  Kennedy's  famous  exploit  at  Hurlingham  in  the 
Civilians  v.  Military  match  some  years  ago  must  not  be  for- 
gotten. He  was  riding  his  celebrated  pony,  Mickey  Free. 
"  Charging  for  the  ball "  was  then  the  fashion.  Kennedy  got 
first  to  the  ball  in  mid-ground,  and,  with  one  drive,  sent  it 
right  up  to  the  "  mouth  "  of  the  goal  — a  distance  of  i6o  yards, 
— passed  all  his  opponents,  and  gently  tipped  it  through. 
That  was  a  great  achievement,  but  he  repeated  the  per- 
formance the  moment  they  changed  ends — thus  scoring 
two  goals  inside  five  minutes  with  practically  two  strokes. 
The  redoubtable  Mickey  Free,  by  the  way,  was  bought  out 
of  a  Brighton  tradesman's  cart. 

The  cavalry  have  not  by  any  means  monopolised  the 
honours  of  polo.  Infantry  regiments  like  the  5th  Fusiliers, 
the  60th  Rifles,  the  23rd  Welsh  Fusiliers,  the  25th  King's 
Own  Borderers,  and  the  33rd,  have  turned  out  excellent 
teams.  Captain  de  Lisle  of  the  Durham  Light  Infantry, 
when  he  was  not  actually  playing  the  game  on  pony-back 
is  said  to  have  sat  on  a  wooden  horse  for  hours,  hitting 
balls  as  they  were  thrown  at  him,  and  practising  every  kind 
of  stroke. 

For  the  following  I  am  indebted  to  Mr  J.  Moray 
Brown : — 

In  a  match  in  which  the  17th  Lancers  took  part,  during 
a  scrimmage  close  to  goal,  no  one  could  find  the  ball.  Some 
one  said  a  goal  had  been  hit,  but  search  for  the  ball 
beyond  the  goal-line  proved  unavailing.  Then  the  secret 
came  out.  The  ball  was  found  attached  to  the  tail  of 
Lord  Ava's  pony,  an  Arab.  The  hairs  of  his  long  tail  had 
become  entangled  in  a  splinter  of  the  ball,  and  so  held  it 
tightly — a  somewhat  complex  case  for  an  umpire  to  decide. 
I  have  heard  of  a  ball  being  hit  right  up  under  a  pony's 
tail,  and  being  held  there  for  a  moment  by  the  animal 
suddenly  tucking  his  tail  down.  I  have  also  heard  of 
a  player  getting  a  fall  and  sitting  on  the  ball,  but  the 
case  of  a  pony  carrying  the  ball  about  with  him  unobserved 
is  exceptionally  quaint. 


HOW   POLO   CAME   TO   ENGLAND   329 

I  have  been  told,  however,  of  a  pony  in  the  Argentine 
stepping  on  a  ball,  which  stuck  to  his  hoof,  and  was  so 
carried  over  the  goal-line  and  between  the  posts.  The 
incident  gave  rise  to  much  discussion  as  to  whether 
a  goal  could  be  claimed,  the  final  decision  being  that  it 
could  not. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

THE  BOARD  OF  GREEN  CLOTH 

Sixty  or  seventy  years  ago  the  best  billiard  player  in  the 
Army  was  a  gallant  officer,  whom  I  will  call  Colonel 
Morice.  This  distinguished  amateur  had  so  long  been  an 
object  of  admiration  in  garrison  towns  at  home  and 
abroad  that  he  fondly  imagined  his  fame  to  be  world-wide. 
One  day  he  walked  into  a  billiard-room  in  the  Quadrant, 
and  found  a  gentleman  of  Transatlantic  origin  knocking 
the  balls  about.  "  Sir,"  said  the  Colonel  in  a  patronising 
tone  of  voice,  "  I  like  your  style."  "  Wal,"  said  the  Yankee, 
in  an  off-hand  sort  of  way,  "  you're  not  the  first  man  who 
has  said  that."  "  Suppose,"  added  the  Colonel,  "  we  have 
a  game.  What  points  shall  I  give  you?"  "Guess  I'll 
play  you  for  anything  you  like  without  points."  "  Sir," 
said  the  Colonel  stiffly,  *'  perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that 
my  name  is  Morice — Colonel  Morice  of  the  45th."  He 
was  rather  taken  aback  when  the  American  coolly  replied, 
"  Wal,  Colonel,  that  name  presents  no  idea  to  me  of  your 
play."  "  Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  pitying 
smile,  "  then  I  will  play  you  even."  But  before  ten  strokes 
had  been  played  the  Colonel  found,  to  his  utter  astonish- 
ment, that  he  had  met  a  man  who  was  more  than  his 
match;  and  when  the  Yankee's  score  was  100,  and  the 
marker  called  "Game,"  the  Colonel  had  only  made  17. 
Turning  round  as  he  made  the  winning  stroke,  the  stranger 
said,  "  You  had  the  goodness,  sir,  to  tell  me  that  your  name 
was  Morice,  which  I  said  presented  no  idea  to  me;  my 
name  is  Jonathan  Kentfield,  which  I  guess  will  present 
some  idea  to  you." 

Alas  for  the  transitoriness  of  human  fame !     I  fear  that 
the  august  name  of  Jonathan  Kcntfield  will  not  "  present  " 

330 


THE  BOARD  OF  GREEN  CLOTH  331 

any  striking  idea  to  the  billiard  players  of  this  generation. 
In  no  game  of  skill  has  professional  proficiency  made  such 
tremendous  strides  during  the  last  half-century  as  in 
billiards.  There  is  as  wide  a  gap  between  the  best  break 
of  Jonathan  Kentfield  on  the  old  wooden,  list-cushioned 
tables,  as  between  the  best  pace  of  the  crack  Shrewsbury 
mail-coach  in  1824  and  the  "Flying  Scotchman"  express 
of  the  present  year. 

Kentfield  came  over  to  England  about  the  year  18 18, 
and  soon  took  his  place  in  the  front  rank,  till  he  surpassed 
all  his  rivals  and  stood  absolutely  alone.  His  rooms  at 
Brighton  were  the  most  popular  in  the  Kingdom.  The 
following,  written  in  1848,  reads  curiously  after  some  of  our 
modern  billiard  feats  : — "  When  playing  the  winning  game 
21  up,  Kentfield  gave  his  opponent  18  points,  and  won  16 
games  following.  In  playing  the  winning  and  losing  game 
24  up,  he  won  10  games,  his  adversary  never  scoring. 
Kentfield  doubled  the  red  ball  over  one  of  the  corner  baulk 
pockets,  leaving  his  own  ball  under  the  side  cushion.  His 
opponent  played  to  drop  the  red  into  the  corner  pocket ; 
failed,  and  left  a  cannon,  and  the  games  were  all  made  off 
the  balls.  In  playing  the  non-cushion  game,  16  up,  he 
screwed  into  the  corner  pocket  off  the  red,  and  won  in  that 
manner  16  games,  his  opponent  not  having  a  stroke.  He 
and  another  player  of  considerable  eminence  completed  30 
games  of  24  up  within  the  hour.  Forty-seven  games  of 
100  up  were  also  played  in  eight  hours  and  a  half  The 
biggest  break  made  by  Kentfield  was  196." 

The  leather-tipped  cue  was  only  introduced  in  1807,  and 
"side"  was  in  its  infancy  when  Jonathan  Kentfield  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  The  credit  of  this  latter  discovery  belongs 
to  a  marker,  named  Carr,  engaged  at  the  rooms  of  Mr 
Bartley  of  Bath.  Carr  declared  that  the  wonderful  strokes 
he  made  were  due  to  a  peculiar  "  twisting  chalk  "  which  he 
had  compounded,  and  he  actually  sold  hundreds  of  little 
pill-boxes  full  of  powdered  chalk,  to  credulous  customers 
at  five  shillings  a  box.  The  celebrated  "  Dutch  Baron  " 
was  really  a  marker  from  Hamburg  and  was  a  "  dab "  at 
the  spot-stroke  when  seven  consecutive  winning  hazards 
were  considered  a  marvellous  feat.     As  the  ordinary  game 


332  SPORTING    STORIES 

was  1 6  to  24  up,  the  man  who  could  make  seven  con- 
secutive spot-strokes  was  a  dangerous  antagonist.  Imagine, 
then,  the  general  astonishment  when  Kentfield  made  57 
such  strokes  in  succession. 

From  1824  to  1845  Jonathan  Kentfield  was  as  far  ahead 
of  his  contemporaries  as  any  billiard  player  has  ever  been. 
It  was  in  1825  that  Pea-Green  Hayne  made  his  foolish 
match  between  Kentfield  and  a  clever  adventurer  named 
Carney  or  Kearney.  The  Pea-Green  Squire,  with  his 
satellites — the  fighting  men, Tom  Cannon  and  White-headed 
Bob — had  come  down  to  Brighton  ;  and  one  morning  when 
Mr  Hayne  was  breakfasting  at  Niven's,  after  a  long  night 
of  cards  and  liquor,  this  plausible  Irish  adventurer  entrapped 
the  verdant  Squire  into  making  two  absurd  matches.  The 
first  was  that  Mr  Hayne  would  not  find  a  player  who  could 
give  Mr  Carney  70  points  out  of  100  at  billiards.  The 
second  was  that  he  could  not  find  a  man  who  would  beat 
Mr  C.  at  fair  "  collar  and  elbow  wrestling."  In  each  case 
the  stakes  were  to  be  ;^ioo,  with  a  bet  of  100  guineas,  play 
or  pay.  The  Squire  chose  Kentfield  to  represent  him  in 
the  billiard  match,  and  Tom  Cannon  in  the  wrestling. 
Jonathan  chose  his  own  table,  and  did  his  level  best ;  but 
it  was  a  forlorn  hope,  for  every  one  but  the  Pea-Green 
victim  knew  that  Carney  was  the  best  amateur  billiard 
player  in  the  three  kingdoms.  Jonathan  crept  up  to  6^, 
but  his  opponent  won  by  33  points  in  18  minutes.  And 
Squire  Hayne  lost  the  other  match ;  for  Cannon,  power- 
ful as  he  was,  could  not  compete  with  Mr  Carney  at 
the  very  peculiar  mode  of  wrestling  which  the  latter 
had  artfully  selected.  So  the  Pea-Green  one  had  to  part 
with  ;^400. 

Up  to  1846  Jonathan  Kentfield  reigned  supreme  without 
a  rival.  Then  faint  rumours  arose  of  a  young  phenomenon 
in  the  North,  John  Roberts  by  name.  Billiard  players  told 
how  the  new  wonder  had  scored  208  at  a  single  break ! 
How,  when  playing  against  a  well-known  performer,  the 
latter,  being  96  to  love,  ran  a  coup,  Roberts  being  in  hand, 
and  the  red  spotted.  How  this  marvellous  youth  screwed 
into  the  top  corner  pocket,  made  102  off  the  red,  and  won 
the  game.     For  a  time  these  wondrous  tales  did  not  shake 


THE  BOARD  OF  GREEN  CLOTH  333 

the  belief  of  the  Brighton  folks  in  ^'/^^z>  champion.  Jonathan 
was  regarded,  and  had  come  to  regard  himself,  as  king  in 
the  world  of  billiards,  and  smiled  with  contempt  at  the 
fabulous  tales  of  this  young  North-countryman's  prowess 
with  the  cue.  But  the  fame  of  the  new  star  spread,  and 
even  Brighton  people  began  to  hint  that  Kentfield  must 
look  to  his  laurels. 

At  last  Roberts  resolved  to  go  down  to  Brighton  to  see 
his  veteran  rival,  and  tells  the  story  himself: — 

"  My  first  meeting  with  Kentfield  was  in  1849,  at 
Brighton,  where  John  Pook  was  at  that  time  his  manager, 
I  told  Kentfield  I  was  admitted  to  be  the  best  player  in 
Lancashire,  and  had  come  to  find  out  if  he  could  show  me 
anything.  He  inquired  if  I  wanted  a  lesson.  I  told  him 
I  did  not,  and  asked  how  many  in  100  would  be  a  fair 
allowance  from  a  player  on  his  own  table  to  a  stranger  of 
equal  skill.  He  replied  15.  I  told  him  I  thought  20 
would  be  nearer  the  mark,  but  I  was  content  to  try  at 
evens.  He  said,  '  If  you  play  me  it  must  be  for  money.' 
On  which  I  pulled  out  a  ;^ioo  note,  and  told  him  I  would 
play  him  10  games  of  100  up,  for  ;^io  a  game.  He  laughed 
and  said  I  was  rather  hasty,  and  eventually  we  commenced 
a  friendly  100  game  on  level  terms.  He  had  the  best  of 
the  breaks,  and  won  by  40.  In  the  second  game  I  pulled  out 
a  few  North-country  shots,  and  won  by  30 ;  but  he  secured 
the  third  game.  Then  he  put  down  his  cue  and  asked  if 
I  was  satisfied  he  could  beat  me.  I  said,  '  No ;  on  the 
contrary,  if  you  can't  play  better  than  that,  I  can  give  you 
20  in  100  easily.'  He  replied, '  Well,  if  you  want  to  play 
me  you  must  put  down  a  big  stake.'  I  asked  how  much, 
and  he  answered  ^1000.  I  said,  '  Do  you  mean  ;^iooo 
a  side  ? '  Upon  which  he  told  me  he  thought  I  was  a 
straightforward  fellow,  and  he  would  see  what  could  be 
done.  He  then  sent  Pook  back  to  me,  and  I  explained  to 
him  how  things  stood.  He  replied,  '  You  may  as  well  go 
back  to  Lancashire  ;  you  won't  get  a  match  on  with  the 
governor.'  I  tried  afterwards  to  arrange  terms,  but  he 
would  never  meet  me.  He  played  a  very  artistic  game, 
but  possessed  little  power  of  cue.  He  depended  on  slow 
twists   and    fancy  screws,  and  rarely  attempted  a  forcing 


334  SPORTING    STORIES 

hazard.  He  gave  misses  whenever  they  were  practicable, 
and  never  departed  from  the  strict  game." 

Jonathan  was  wise  not  to  risk  his  reputation  by  a  match 
with  Roberts,  for  he  had  passed  his  prime;  though  he 
would  have  been  very  indignant  had  any  one  suggested 
that  he  was  not  as  good  as  ever.  There  was  much  spilling 
of  ink  over  the  merits  of  the  two  great  masters  of  the  cue ; 
but,  after  a  while,  Kentfield's  records  were  so  completely 
wiped  out  that  he  retired  from  the  scene,  eclipsed  by  the 
new  luminary  I  do  not  remember  the  year  of  his  death  ; 
but  he  had  fallen  into  obscurity  for  a  long  time  before  he 
shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil. 

I  remember  the  sensation  created  by  old  John  Roberts's 
break  of  246  at  Saville  House,  and  I  little  dreamed  that 
I  should  live  to  see  the  day  when  ten  times  that  amount 
would  be  made  off  the  balls.  I  recall,  too,  the  consternation 
which  his  defeat  by  young  William  Cook  caused  among 
admirers  of  old  John  Roberts.  For  four  years  the  new 
wonder  held  his  own,  beating  young  John  Roberts  and  Joe 
Bennett — the  former  three  times  in  succession.  Then  at 
last  in  1875  young  John  turned  the  tables  on  his  conqueror 
and  amply  avenged  the  defeats  of  himself  and  his  father. 
For  nearly  twenty  years  John  Roberts  the  younger  was  far 
above  all  his  contemporaries  and  was  recognised  as  the 
finest  exponent  of  the  game  ever  seen.  The  gap  between 
him  and  the  next  in  merit  was  so  great  that  at  one  time 
there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could  not  concede  half  the 
game. 

Among  the  lesser  lights  of  bygone  days  I  recall  "  Billy  " 
Dufton,  whose  long  "jennies"  into  the  top  pockets  used  to 
excite  my  admiration.  He  had  the  honour  of  being  tutor 
to  our  present  Sovereign,  who  still  plays  a  very  good  game. 

Dufton  was  a  great  friend  of  Harry  Grimshaw  the  jockey, 
and  I  have  often  seen  them  together  in  the  billiard  room  of 
the  "  Birdbolt "  at  Cambridge,  in  my  time  a  favourite  haunt 
of  the  undergraduate.  It  was  from  the  "  Birdbolt "  that 
Harry  Grimshaw  started  on  his  fatal  drive  to  Newmarket, 
when  he  was  thrown  out  of  his  dog-cart  and  killed  on  the 
spot.  I  saw  him  playing  billiards  with  Dufton  an  hour 
before  his  tragic  death. 


THE  BOARD  OF  GREEN  CLOTH  335 

Pool  was  in  great  vogue  in  my  'Varsity  days.  An 
Australian  at  Trinity  told  me  that  he  made  from  ^150  to 
;^200  a  year  at  pool ;  and  there  was  a  Johnian  who  was 
known  as  the  "  tizzy  Sweeper."  I  always  thought  public 
pool  "  low  form,"  and  the  men  who  played  regularly  had 
something  of  the  stamp  of  the  billiard  sharper. 

A  good  many  men  have  been  ruined  by  their  infatuation 
for  billiards,  and  no  one  can  deny  its  dangerous  fascination. 
The  most  extraordinary  instance  I  ever  heard  of  was  that 
of  an  amateur  who  some  eighty  years  ago  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  the  game.  His  name  was  Andrews.  He  was  a 
gentleman  of  ample  private  means,  but  he  lived  only  for 
billiards ;  his  mind  was  a  blank  for  any  other  idea.  The 
sums  for  which  Andrews  played  were  very  large,  but, 
though  his  winnings  were  immense,  he  really  cared  little 
for  the  filthy  lucre — love  of  the  game  was  paramount 
with  him,  and  he  was  never  guilty  of  sharp  practice. 

One  night  he  won  upwards  of  ;^iooo  off  a  colonel  in  the 
Guards  who  fancied  himself  very  much  with  the  cue.  The 
loser  made  an  appointment  to  go  with  him  next  day  to  the 
City  to  sell  out  stock  for  the  amount  due.  They  took  a 
hackney-coach,  and  at  starting  tossed  which  should  pay  the 
fare.  Andrews  lost :  then  offered  to  toss  for  a  sovereign 
lost  again,  grew  excited,  tossed  for  ten,  then  twenty,  then 
fifty,  then  double  or  quits,  till  he  had  lost  every  penny  he 
had  won  at  billiards  the  night  before.  Then  the  colonel 
put  his  head  out  and  told  the  cabman  to  drive  them  back 
to  the  West  End.  This  was  not  by  any  means  an  isolated 
instance  of  Andrews'  bad  luck.  What  he  won  at  billiards 
he  invariably  lost  at  dice  or  cards,  until  he  was  stripped  of 
every  shilling  he  possessed,  except  a  small  annuity  which 
just  sufficed  to  save  him  from  beggary. 

Peall's  record  "  all  in  "  break  of  3304  was  made  in  1890  ; 
John  Roberts'  spot-barred  record  of  1892,  in  1894;  but  as 
far  back  as  1858  there  were  "tall"  exploits  with  the  cue 
in  America  which  threw  all  British  records  into  the  shade. 
In  1858  John  W.  Hester,  in  a  match  with  Henry  Prieto, 
ran  out  with  an  unfinished  break  of  two  thousand  one 
hundred  and  fifty-seven,  including  seven  hundred  and 
nineteen    consecutive    cannons.      The    American    game. 


336  SPORTING    STORIES 

of  course,  differs  from  the  English  ;  and  I  believe  that  a 
cannon  counted  three  points  if  made  without  touching 
the  cushion,  and  two  if  made  off  the  cushion.  If  this  be 
so,  those  719  cannons  of  Mr  Hester  must  have  been  all 
"  nursery  "  cannons. 

Rather  a  large  order  that !  But,  bless  you  !  that  score 
was  not  long  allowed  to  remain  unbeaten  in  such  a  go- 
ahead  country  as  the  States.  In  the  New  York  Spirit  of  the 
Times  iox  22nd  May  1858  I  find  the  following  from  the  pen 
of  the  editor,  George  Wilkes,  whom  I  knew  personally  : — 

"  A  week  or  two  ago  Mr  John  W.  Hester's  great  break 
was  beaten  147  points  by  Mr  W.  M.  Ormsby,  of  Brooklyn, 
Long  Island.  He  nursed  the  balls  so  skilfully  that  he 
marked  two  thousand  three  hundred  and  four  points  by 
seven  hundred  and  sixty-eight  consecutive  caroms  (can- 
nons) without  touching  a  cushion  !  The  time  occupied 
was  nearly  two  hours.  This  might  well  be  doubted  were 
its  correctness  not  attested  by  thirteen  spectators,  all  of 
whom  are  prominent  citizens  of  Brooklyn." 

After  that  I  will  not  attempt  to  give  any  more  billiard 
records — I  have  no  further  use  for  them. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

BLIND  SPORTSMEN 

When  Lord  Kitchener  arrived  in  England  after  his 
successful  campaign  against  the  Mahdi  there  was  a  report, 
which  happily  proved  to  be  untrue,  that  he  was  threatened 
with  total  blindness ;  and  it  is  said  that  he  received  a 
remarkable  letter  from  a  blind  clergyman  bidding  him  be 
of  good  cheer,  and  enumerating  the  various  occupations  in 
which  he  (the  writer)  was  able  to  take  an  active  part 
despite  his  entire  loss  of  sight.  This  story  brought  to 
my  mind  some  extraordinary  cases  of  blind  sportsmen, 
who,  notwithstanding  their  affliction,  were  able  to  indulge 
freely  in  their  favourite  sports. 

I  once  heard  the  late  Professor  Fawcett,  who,  as  a  young 
man,  had  the  sight  of  both  eyes  destroyed  by  shots  from 
his  father's  gun,  say  that  he  knew  certain  parts  of  the  river 
Itchen  so  well  that,  if  told  where  he  was,  he  could  throw  a 
fly  with  unerring  accuracy  into  a  pool  where  he  knew  a 
trout  lay.  And  so  quick  was  his  ear  that  when  a  fish  rose 
he  could  tell  by  the  splash  exactly  where  to  throw  his 
fly.  I  have  often  seen  him  at  Cambridge  rowing  in  the 
"  Ancient  Mariners  Eight "  with  brother  Dons  of  aquatic 
tastes,  and  keeping  time  with  the  best  of  them.  I  have 
seen  him  skating  too,  but  then  he  always  had  a  companion 
to  pilot  him. 

Probably  most  Yorkshiremen  are  familiar  with  the  name 
of  John  Metcalf— "  Blind  Jack  of  Knaresborough."  Metcalf 
was  attacked  by  smallpox  at  the  age  of  six  and  lost  his 
eyesight.  Yet  he  was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  coursing, 
steeplechasing,  and  hunting.  He  rode  wonderfully  straight 
to  hounds,  guided  by  his  acute  sense  of  hearing  and  the 
occasional  warnings  of  a  friend  who  kept  near  him.      But 

337  22 


338  SPORTING   STORIES 

his  greatest  feat  in  the  saddle  was  his  match  with  another 
Yorkshire  sportsman,  three  miles  on  the  flat,  owners  up, 
for  lOO  guineas  a  side.  Metcalf  had  a  small  stud  of 
his  own  at  this  time.  The  betting  was  20  to  i  against 
him,  because  it  was  thought  the  shape  of  the  course^ — 
a  circular  one — destroyed  his  chance.  There  were  posts  at 
intervals,  and  at  each  post  Metcalf  stationed  a  man  with  a 
bell.  The  sound  of  the  bells  guided  him  and  enabled  him 
to  keep  the  course,  and  he  rode  in  an  easy  winner. 

Blind  Jack  was  also  a  remarkable  runner,  as  the  following 
anecdote  will  prove.  The  week  before  the  York  Spring 
Meeting,  Colonel  Mellish,  who  was  staying  at  the  Dragon 
Hotel,  Harrogate,  met  a  Captain  Stancliffe,  whose  groom 
was  a  celebrated  runner.  Metcalf  happening  to  be  at  the 
Dragon  tap,  and  hearing  some  talk  about  the  groom's 
powers  as  a  pedestrian,  said  he  would  run  him  to  Knares- 
borough  Churchyard  gate.  Mellish  (who  had  often  heard 
of  Blind  Jack)  there  and  then  backed  Metcalf  for  ;^50  against 
Captain  Stancliffe's  groom.  The  men  soon  got  ready,  the 
groom  in  running  costume;  but  Metcalf  made  no  prepara- 
tions. A  tall,  heavily-built  man,  with  a  slouching  walk,  it 
looked  as  though  the  odds  were  100  to  i  against  him,  even 
if  he  had  not  been  blind.  They  started,  Eyes  taking  the 
lead.  No  Eyes  keeping  close  behind.  All  at  once  Metcalf 
was  seen  to  deviate  to  the  right,  and  most  of  the  people, 
thinking  that  it  was  all  over,  turned  back.  The  groom 
kept  on  straight  for  the  bridge  over  the  Swale,  while 
Metcalf  made  for  the  river,  into  which  he  plunged  clothes 
and  all,  and,  swimming  across,  reached  the  goal  long  before 
his  opponent.  The  way  he  had  taken  was  three-quarters 
of  a  mile  shorter. 

Jack  Metcalf  was  also  a  capital  hand  at  bowls.  He 
managed  in  this  way.  A  friend  and  confederate  was 
stationed  close  to  the  jack,  and  another  midway.  They 
kept  up  a  constant  conversation,  and  from  the  sound  of 
their  voices  he  guessed  the  distance.  His  dexterity  at 
cards,  too,  was  wonderful.  But  perhaps  his  most  extra- 
ordinary achievements  were  as  a  boxer.  He  was  a  man 
of  magnificent  physique,  6  ft.  2  ins.  in  height,  and  very 
finely  made.     His   want  of  sight  might    well   have   been 


BLIND    SPORTSMEN  339 

thought  a  fatal  bar  to  his  ever  attaining  pugilistic  laurels. 
Yet  it  was  not  so,  and  among  other  feats  with  his  fists,  he 
fairly  thrashed  in  six  hard-fought  rounds,  a  man  as  big  as 
himself,  and  reckoned  the  champion  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Metcalf  was  a  soldier  too,  and  served  all  through  the 
campaign  of  1745  against  the  Jacobite  Pretender,  playing 
the  fiddle  at  the  head  of  his  company  after  the  fashion  of 
the  Highland  pipers.  On  his  return  from  the  wars  he 
became  a  trader.  In  175 1  he  started  the  first  stage-coach 
or  "  stage- wagon,"  as  they  called  it  then,  between  York 
and  Knaresborough,  driving  it  himself,  twice  a  week  in 
summer  and  once  in  winter.  Eventually  he  became  a 
contractor  for  road-making,  and  made  his  fame  and  fortune, 
for  his  engineering  skill  was  remarkable.  He  died  at 
Spofiforth,  near  Wetherby,  on  27th  April  18 10,  in  the 
ninety-fourth  year  of  his  age. 

Jack  Metcalfs  exploits,  however,  were  rivalled  by  a 
Scotsman  named  M'Giivray,  who,  despite  his  blindness,  was 
a  first-rate  jockey  and  an  excellent  judge  of  horses.  When 
examining  a  horse  he  was  guided  entirely  by  feeling,  but 
so  well  did  he  know  the  points  of  a  horse  that  he  never 
made  a  mistake. 

Mr  Birnie,  an  owner  of  racehorses  and  a  coach  proprietor 
in  the  south  of  Scotland,  picked  up  a  fine  bargain  at 
Edinburgh  Hallow  Fair.  On  his  way  home  he  put  up  at 
the  Blackshiels  Inn,  Fala,  kept  by  M'Gilvray's  father.  Mr 
Birnie,  while  sitting  at  his  dinner,  asked  Willie  M'Giivray 
to  examine  his  purchase.  In  half  an  hour  or  so  young 
M'Giivray  returned,  and  said  the  horse  was  everything 
that  could  be  wished  for  had  he  been  able  to  see  with  both 
eyes.  "  How  do  you  know  he  does  not  see  with  both 
eyes  ?  "  the  owner  asked.  "  I  have  passed  my  hand  over 
and  over  the  right  side  of  his  head,"  was  the  reply,  "  and 
his  eyelids  never  flinch,  but  when  I  do  so  on  the  other  side 
they  close  instantly."  The  horse  was  really  blind  on  the 
right  side,  and  the  blind  jockey  had  discovered  an  im- 
perfection which  the  purchaser,  a  first-rate  judge,  had  failed 
to  detect. 

As  a  jockey,  M'Giivray  was  guided,  when  he  rode  a 
race,  by  his  knowledge  of  two  or  three  race-courses,  and,  as 


340  SPORTING   STORIES 

he  never  went  upon  unknown  ground,  his  lack  of  sight  did 
not  appear  to  be  much  detriment.  The  blind  man  naturally 
trusted  much  to  his  acute  sense  of  hearing,  which  frequently 
informed  him  when  his  opponent's  horse  had  shot  his  bolt 
by  the  tune  his  pipes  were  playing. 

A  less  known  but  scarcely  less  remarkable  man  used 
to  sell  race-cards  at  Stamford  Races.  His  name  was 
Andrews,  and  he  was  generally  known  as  "  Blind  Tommy." 
On  the  1 8th  of  February  1850  he  rode  a  blind  horse  from 
Stamford  at  8  a.m.,  arrived  at  the  White  Horse,  Spalding, 
at  12.30,  started  for  his  return  journey  at  2.30  p.m.,  and 
reached  Stamford  at  7.30  p.m. — the  whole  journey  being 
accomplished  without  a  guide. 

On  the  1 2th  of  March  1856  he  rode  a  blind  horse  from 
the  Royal  Hotel,  Peterborough,  to  the  White  Hart,  Wisbech. 
He  started  from  Peterborough  at  10  a.m.,  went  through 
Thorney,  and  reached  Wisbech  at  4.10  p.m.,  left  Wisbech 
next  day  at  1.30  p.m.,  and  arrived  at  Peterborough  at  6  p.m. 
— as  before,  without  a  guide. 

Six  years  later,  in  May  1862,  this  blind  man  rode  a 
donkey  from  Wisbech  through  Thorney  and  Thurlby,  a 
distance  of  30  miles,  all  through  the  Fen  country,  with 
dykes  on  either  side  of  the  road,  in  twelve  hours,  without  a 
guide.  Andrews  was  a  crack  sprint-runner  too,  and  beat 
the  well-known  professional  George  Maxey  in  a  hundred 
yards  race  on  the  Thorpe  and  Peterborough  road  for  a 
stake  of  ^25  a  side  on  the  13th  of  August  1850. 

Lieutenant  James  Holman,  the  blind  traveller  who  lost 
his  sight  at  the  age  of  five-and-twenty,  was  a  keen  sportsman 
with  both  rod  and  gun.  It  is  said  that  his  hearing  was  so 
exact  and  acute  that  when  a  covey  of  partridges  or  a 
pheasant  got  up  he  would  three  times  out  of  five  down  his 
bird.  This  is  the  only  instance  I  know  of  a  blind  man 
attempting  to  shoot.  Lieutenant  Holman  travelled  twice 
round  the  world,  and  published  the  narrative  of  these  ex- 
peditions, besides  a  graphic  account  of  his  travels  through 
Russia  and  Siberia.  It  is  related  that  on  one  occasion  he 
was  attacked  by  a  polar  bear,  which  he  shot,  though  he  had 
nothing  but  his  ear  to  guide  his  aim.  But  this  can  only 
be   regarded   as   a   piece   of  sheer  luck.     The  mere  fact, 


BLIND    SPORTSMEN  341 

however,  of  a  blind  man  having  the  nerve  to  carry  a  gun  is 
remarkable.  Most,  if  not  all,  of  his  journeys  were  exploring 
expeditions  in  regions  little  known,  and  consequently  he 
had  to  rough  it  in  a  fashion  which  might  well  have  tested 
the  powers  and  resources  of  a  man  with  perfect  sight.  His 
skill  as  a  fisherman  I  do  not  take  much  account  of,  because 
it  was  not  like  Professor  Fawcett's  fly-fishing;  but  his 
shooting  feats,  I  must  confess,  move  me  to  unbounded 
astonishment. 

The  late  Mr  Kavanagh,  long  a  well-known  member  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  though  not  blind,  suffered  from 
physical  disabilities  which  might  have  been  thought  more 
fatal  to  the  enjoyment  of  sport  than  the  loss  of  sight.  He 
had  neither  arms  nor  legs,  yet  he  hunted  and  shot  and  drove, 
and  in  all  these  was  an  adept.  He  was  fastened  on  horse- 
back in  a  kind  of  basket  arrangement,  and  guided  his  horse 
partly  with  his  teeth  and  partly  by  hooks  attached  to  the 
stumps  which  reached  some  six  inches  from  each  shoulder. 
In  shooting,  a  wooden  arm  was  attached  to  the  left  stump, 
which  gave  him  a  rest  for  his  gun. 

Sir  William  Maxwell  of  Monreith,  the  owner  of  Filho  da 
Puta,  winner  of  the  St  Leger  of  1815,  who  lost  his  arm  in 
the  Peninsular  War,  was  one  of  the  best  game-shots  of  his 
day,  and  was  another  instance  of  a  plucky  sportsman's 
determination  not  to  be  deterred  by  physical  disability  from 
pursuing  his  favourite  sport. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

SPORTSMEN  OF  THE  BENCH  AND  BAR 

Baron  Brampton,  better  known  as  Sir  Henry  Hawkins, 
was  almost  as  familiar  a  figure  at  Newmarket  as  in  the 
Law  Courts,  and  no  end  of  stories  were  told  of  his  efforts  to 
combine  the  duties  of  a  judge  with  the  pleasures  of  a 
sportsman.  Many  of  these  stories,  no  doubt,  were  apoc- 
ryphal, but  the  publication  of  Sir  Henry's  racy  Reinijii- 
scences  proves  how  keen  a  lover  of  sport  he  was,  and 
how  varied  were  his  experiences.  The  Prize  Ring  shared 
with  the  Turf  his  early  patronage,  and  he  has  many  a 
good  story  of  great  fights  he  had  seen — indeed,  he  was 
once  mistaken  for  an  eminent  pugilist,  and  by  his  bold 
"bluff"  in  assuming  the  character  extricated  himself  from 
a  very  tight  place.  But  it  was  on  the  race-course  that  he 
was  most  at  home.  In  his  love  of  the  Turf  he  had  one 
sympathetic  brother  on  the  Bench  in  the  person  of  the  late 
Lord  Chief  Justice — Lord  Russell  of  Killowen,  who,  as  Sir 
Charles  Russell,  was  the  foremost  advocate  of  his  day. 
His  knowledge  of  racing  stood  him  in  good  stead  in  the 
cause  celebre  of  Wood  v.  Cox,  when,  by  his  masterly  conduct 
of  the  case,  he  secured  a  moral  victory  for  the  eccentric 
proprietor  of  the  Licensed  Victuallers^  Gazette. 

But  neither  Lord  Brampton  nor  Lord  Russell  could  hold 
a  candle  to  Baron  Martin,  who,  in  his  later  days,  openly 
expressed  his  regret  that  he  had  not  abandoned  the  Bar 
for  the  Turf 

Baron  Martin  was  the  only  judge  who  owned  racehorses. 
It  is  true  that  his  name  was  never  registered  as  an  owner, 
but  it  was  well  known  that  the  Baron  had  a  half-share  in 
several  horses  which  ran  under  the  name  and  colours  of 
Harry  Hill,  the  famous  bookmaker.     Rogerthorpe  was  the 

342 


SPORTSMEN    OF   BENCH   AND    BAR  343 

best  horse  in  which  Baron  Martin  had  an  interest.  He 
was  a  favourite  for  the  Derby,  but  was  not  placed.  He, 
however,  won  the  Goodwood  Cup  of  1856,  and  that  trophy 
ornamented  the  Baron's  sideboard  and  was  one  of  his  most 
treasured  possessions. 

The  Turf  of  to-day  is  far  less  interesting  than  that  with 
which  Baron  Martin  made  acquaintance  when  William  IV. 
was  still  on  the  throne.  Such  characters  as  Sir  Charles 
Monk,  Parson  Harvey,  James  Hirst,  Michael  Brunton, 
Mark  Plews,  Dick  Stockdale,  Bill  Scott,  and  many  more 
have  vanished,  and  the  world  of  sport  is  the  poorer  by  their 
loss,  for  they  infused  into  it  that  individual  variety  which 
is  the  spice  of  life. 

From  1832  to  1850,  when  he  was  appointed  a  Baron  of  the 
Exchequer,  Mr  Martin  had  many  opportunities  of  attend- 
ing races,  though,  like  many  other  lovers  of  the  sport,  he 
was  fonder  of  watching  horses  at  exercise  and  of  seeing 
them  stripped  in  the  stable  than  of  frequenting  race- 
meetings. 

On  Sundays  during  the  assize  week  in  York  he  had  a 
post-chaise  ready  at  daybreak,  in  which,  often  accompanied 
by  his  old  friend  Mr  James  Stuart  Wortley,  he  drove  off 
to  Malton,  to  visit  John  Scott's  stables  at  Whitewall.  His 
inquiries  about  every  detail  of  racing  descended  to  the 
minutest  particulars,  and  few  facts  once  committed  to 
memory  ever  escaped  him.  The  time  when  all  this  racing 
knowledge  was  to  be  turned  to  account  by  Mr  Martin  (who 
took  silk  in  1843)  was  rapidly  approaching. 

The  first  case  which  brought  him  into  prominence  was 
the  famous  Bloomsbury  Protest  in  1839.  Mr  Ridsdale's 
slashing  colt  had  won  the  Ascot  Derby  Stakes  in  the 
previous  season,  but  Lord  Lichfield  had  protested  against 
the  payment  of  the  stakes  on  the  ground  that  the  horse 
had  been  misdescribed.  Cresswell  (afterwards  Sir  Cress- 
well  Cresswell,  the  first  President  of  the  Divorce  Court)  and 
Martin  were  counsel  for  Mr  Ridsdale,  the  plaintiff,  but  the 
conduct  of  the  case  was  left  entirely  in  Martin's  hands,  and 
he  secured  a  brilliantly  won  verdict  for  his  client. 

Running  Rein  came  in  first  for  the  Derby  of  1844,  but 
was  objected  to  on  the  ground  that  he  was  really  a  four-year- 


344  SPORTING    STORIES 

old  named  Maccabeus.  Martin  was  one  of  the  counsel  for 
Colonel  Peel  who,  as  owner  of  the  second  horse  Orlando, 
claimed  the  stakes.  His  leader  was  Page- Wood  (afterwards 
Lord  Hatherley),  a  gentle,  high-minded  man,  and  a  skilful 
advocate,  but  with  no  more  knowledge  of  the  Turf  and  its 
surroundings  than  a  cow  has  of  the  differential  calculus. 
He  wisely  left  the  case  to  his  junior,  who  pulled  his  client 
through  triumphantly  and  against  the  machinations  of  the 
most  infamous  confederacy  of  swindlers  that  ever  blackened 
the  annals  of  horse-racing. 

Though  he  preferred  training-stables  to  the  race-course, 
Baron  Martin  was  not  infrequently  seen  at  race-meetings. 
A  friend,  meeting  him  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  at  the 
Sunday  races,  said  : 

"  It  would  not  do  for  you,  Baron,  to  be  seen  in  England 
like  this  on  the  Sabbath  day." 

"  Well,"  said  the  judge,  "  what  would  you  have  me  do 
when  they  only  race  here  on  Sundays  ?  " 

When  judge  on  the  Western  Circuit,  he  was  invited  with 
several  members  of  the  Bar  to  dine  with  the  Dean  of 
Winchester,  whom  he  had  never  met.  A  few  days  after,  a 
friend  asked  the  Dean  what  he  thought  of  Baron  Martin. 

"  Well,"  was  the  reply,  "  he  does  not  appear  to  be  a  man 
of  enlarged  information.  He  had  never  heard  of  William 
of  Wykeham,  and  wanted  to  know  who  he  was." 

Martin  was  asked  by  some  one  what  he  thought  of  the 
Dean. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  can't  say  I  think  much  of  him.  He 
seems  very  deficient  in  general  knowledge ;  he  didn't  know 
who  John  Day  was,  and  has  never  heard  of  Danebury, 
though  he  has  been  years  in  Winchester." 

Baron  Martin's  knowlege  of  matters  outside  the  Turf  and 
the  Law  was  certainly  limited.  Only  once  was  he  induced 
to  see  a  play  of  Shakespeare's.  The  play  was  Measure 
for  Measure^  and  his  feelings  as  a  judge  were  so  outraged 
by  the  atrociously  bad  law  in  the  play  that  he  entertained 
the  greatest  contempt  for  Shakespeare  ever  afterwards. 

Baron  Martin  had  an  almost  rabid  aversion  to  the 
"  prophets "  who  profess  to  give  weak-minded  men  "  the 
straight  tip."     When  a  prophet  came  before  the  Baron,  he 


SPORTSMEN    OF   BENCH    AND    BAR  345 

let  him  know  in  pretty  strong  language  what  he  thought 
of  him.  On  one  occasion,  after  he  had  become  deaf,  he 
was  trying  a  racing  case  that  he  revelled  in.  One  of  the 
counsel  was  named  Stammers,  a  solemn,  sententious  person, 
who  seldom  made  a  speech  without  quoting  passages  from 
Scripture.  In  addressing  the  jury,  he  had  got  as  far  as 
"  the  prophet  says,"  when  the  judge  interposed. 

"Don't  trouble  the  jury,  Mr  Stammers,  about  the 
prophets ;  there  is  not  one  of  them  who  would  not  sell  his 
father  for  sixpennyworth  of  half-pence." 

"  But,  my  lord,"  said  Stammers  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  I 
was  about  to  quote  the  prophet  Jeremiah." 

"  Don't  tell  me, "  said  the  Baron  ;  "  I  have  no  doubt  your 
friend  Mr  Myers  is  just  as  bad  as  the  rest  of  them." 

Like  Mr  Justice  Hawkins,  Baron  Martin  was  made  an 
honorary  member  of  the  Jockey  Club — a  compliment  which 
he  highly  appreciated.  On  the  Bench  the  reputation  of 
the  two  was  similar.  Both  were  strong  judges.  Martin 
had  a  bluff,  blunt  manner  without  the  caustic  humour  of 
Hawkins  ;  but  he  was,  perhaps,  even  a  greater  favourite 
with  the  Bar  and  the  public. 

With  the  three  notable  exceptions  I  have  named,  the 
Bench  has  been  singularly  lacking  in  sportsmen.  Baron 
Alderson,  indeed,  has  been  credited  with  horsy  tastes  on 
the  strength  of  a  visit  to  John  Scott's  famous  training 
establishment  at  Whitewall.  But  he  had  no  real  sympathy 
with  the  Turf.  Lord  Eldon,  too,  tried  to  pass  as  a  sports- 
man ;  but  his  attempts  were  futile  and  ignominious. 

Eldon  (the  "  Jock  "  Scott  of  that  romantic  runaway  match 
with  Bessie  Surtees)  was  a  bad  rider  and  a  worse  whip. 
Even  William  Henry  Scott,  that  pattern  of  a  dutiful  son, 
used  to  laugh  at  the  Chancellor's  ignorance  of  horse-flesh. 
Lord  Campbell  tells  the  following  story  of  Eldon  and  his 
favourite  boy.  They  were  walking  together  in  Piccadilly 
when  a  gentleman,  driving  past  them  in  a  cabriolet  (with 
a  tiger  behind),  took  off  his  hat  and  made  a  low  bow. 
"  Who  is  that,"  said  Lord  Eldon,  "  who  treats  me  with 
respect  now  that  I  am  nobody  ?  "  "  Why,  sir,"  said  William 
Henry,  "  that  is  Sir  John  Campbell,  the  Whig  Solicitor- 
General."     "  I  wonder  what  they  would  have  said  of  me," 


346  SPORTING    STORIES 

cried  the  ex-Chancellor,  "  if  I  had  driven  a  cabriolet  when  I 
was  Solicitor-General  ?  "  "  They  would  have  said,"  replied 
William  Henry,  "'  There  goes  the  greatest  lawyer  and  the 
worst  whip  in  England.' " 

Lord  Eldon  was  quite  aware  of  his  own  limitations. 
Clumsy  and  inefficient  in  all  field-sports,  he  used  to  laugh 
at  his  own  deficiencies.  This  good-humour  was  the  more 
creditable  as  he  enjoyed  playing  the  part  of  a  country 
squire,  and  took  great  pains  to  qualify  himself  to  kill  the 
game  which  he  preserved  at  considerable  cost.  As  long 
as  he  could  relish  bodily  exercise  he  carried  a  gun  ;  but 
he  never  rode  to  hounds  after  reaching  years  of  sound 
discretion. 

Lord  Chief  Justice  Cockburn  was  fond  of  yachting  and 
shooting,  and  was  by  no  means  a  bad  shot. 

I  remember  a  story  in  which  both  the  Lord  Chancellor 
and  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  then  Sir  Alexander  Cockburn, 
figured.  The  latter  took  a  house  and  some  shooting  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Lingfield  in  Sussex,  and  among  his 
guests  at  one  of  his  shooting  parties  were  Lord  Westbury 
and  his  son,  Dick  Bethell.  Cockburn  had  never  seen 
either  of  them  shoot,  but  had  heard  Westbury  telling  ex- 
traordinary stories  of  his  success  at  the  covert  side. 

After  the  first  beat  Cockburn  observed  the  two  members 
of  the  Bethell  family  shooting  rather  wildly,  and  as,  besides 
the  pheasants,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  ground-game  in 
the  covert,  he  told  his  head  keeper  to  post  the  pair  close 
together. 

Presently,  from  the  spot  where  Lord  Westbury  and  his 
son  had  been  posted,  a  yell  of  pain  was  heard,  and  it  was 
found  that  the  keeper  had  been  shot  in  the  leg.  Cockburn 
made  his  appearance  from  quite  another  part  of  the  wood  ; 
but  Lord  Westbury  at  once  began  to  accuse  his  host  and 
to  read  him  a  lecture  as  to  how  careful  one  should  be,  and 
as  to  the  folly  and  danger  of  commencing  field-sports  late 
in  life.  As  for  himself,  he  explained,  he  had  been  educated 
to  them  from  boyhood. 

The  Lord  Chief  Justice  was  a  great  deal  too  polite  a 
host  to  make  any  reply.  When,  however,  the  party  were 
proceeding   to   a   neighbouring  spinney — Lord  Westbury 


SPORTSMEN   OF   BENCH   AND   BAR   347 

and  his  son  walking  together  behind — Cockburn,  making 
a  sign  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  two  who  were  following, 
said,  "  Which  of  them  shot  you,  Bacup  ?  "  "  Which,  Sir 
Alexander  ?  "  replied  the  keeper.     "  Both,  damn  'em  !  " 

Chief  Baron  Pollock  was  a  first  rate  runner,  jumper,  and 
boxer  ;  he  was  probably  the  most  active  man  for  his  years 
that  ever  graced  the  Bench.  When  he  was  made  chief 
Baron  of  the  Exchequer  in  1844,  being  then  in  his  sixty- 
second  year,  he  offered  to  run,  walk,  or  box  with  any  man 
twenty  years  his  junior,  and  I  am  sure  there  was  no  man 
of  forty  at  the  Bar  who  could  have  beaten  him.  To  the 
very  last  he  prided  himself  on  his  athletic  vigour,  and  the 
following  story  is  told  of  him.  When  he  was  close  upon 
eighty  an  officious  friend  urged  upon  him  the  advisability 
of  resigning  on  account  of  his  advancing  years  and  general 
infirmities.  When  the  gentleman  had  finished  the  Chief 
Baron  rose  and  said,  in  his  own  peculiar,  sarcastic 
manner : 

"  Oh !  you  think  it  is  about  time  I  gave  up  work,  do 
you  ?     Got  too  old  and  stiff,  you  fancy  ?     Come  here  !  " 

The  too  candid  friend  stood  up,  and  the  Chief  Baron, 
skipping  up  to  him  with  all  the  nimbleness  of  a  lad  in  his 
teens,  said  : 

"  Will  you  dance  with  me  ?  Imagine  yourself  a  charming 
lady,  and  abandon  yourself  to  the  ravishing  waltz." 

"  Thank  you  ;   I  don't  dance,"  replied  the  other  coldly. 

"  Dear  me !  you  don't  dance  ?  Well,  but  you  can  box, 
can't  you  ? " 

"  I  could  when  I  was  a  young  man." 

"  But  surely  you  haven't  forgotten — come,  let  us  have  a 
spar." 

And  with  that  the  Chief  Baron  began  to  frame  up  to  his 
officious  friend,  and  let  out  right  and  left.  He  kept  on 
hitting  with  bewildering  quickness  and  considerable  sting, 
till  a  smart  left-hander  on  the  nose  drew  blood  from  that 
organ  and  tears  from  both  eyes.  This  was  more  than  the 
candid  friend  had  bargained  for  from  the  man  whose  de- 
crepitude he  had  been  insisting  on  ;  he  turned  and  fled 
from  the  room.  After  that,  I  need  hardly  say  that  Chief 
Baron  Pollock  had  no  more  visits  from  friends  suggesting 


348  SPORTING    STORIES 

his  retirement.  He  retired  at  84,  after  two-and-twenty 
years  on  the  Bench,  and  it  was  not  till  four  years  later  that 
he  died,  hale  and  vigorous  to  the  last. 

Among  the  present  ornaments  of  the  judicial  Bench,  Sir 
Thomas  Tovvnsend  Bucknill  is  the  most  pronounced  lover 
of  sport.  "  Tommy  Bucknill,"  as  his  friends  call  him,  has 
always  been  a  keen  sportsman.  In  his  younger  days  he 
was  one  of  the  cleverest  light-weight  boxers  I  have  ever 
met  among  amateurs — the  cleverest,  I  think,  was  the  late 
Thomas  Brett,  of  the  Chancery  Bar,  whose  learned  Com- 
mentaries will  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  both 
branches  of  his  profession.  "  Tom  "  Brett  was  as  eccentric 
as  he  was  brilliant,  and  his  eccentricity  was  unfortunately 
a  bar  to  his  success.  He  was  a  good  all-round  athlete, 
but  boxing  was  his  forte,  and  I  have  often  accompanied 
him  in  our  "  salad  days  "  to  the  Blue  Anchor  in  Shoreditch, 
where  he  would  put  on  the  gloves  against  all  comers — pro- 
fessional or  amateur — and  so  well  did  he  acquit  himself 
against  the  pro.'s  that  I  have  often  heard  derisive  cries  of 
"  Which  is  the  hama-toor  ?  "  from  the  critical  spectators. 
Brett  was  standing  counsel  to  the  "  Fancy,"  and  I  have 
known  such  eminent  ornaments  of  the  Prize  Ring  as  Jem 
Mace  and  Joe  Goss  express  the  profoundest  reverence  for 
his  legal  acumen. 

Another  mighty  athlete  of  those  days  was  Richard 
Ouseley  Blake  Lane,  now  K.C.  and  one  of  the  West 
London  Police  Magistrates.  He,  too,  was  a  fine  boxer,  a 
heavy-weight  standing  considerably  over  six  feet,  remark- 
ably powerful,  and  singularly  active  for  his  size.  Like  Tom 
Brett,  he  was  a  graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and 
both  of  them  afforded  signal  proof  that  men  of  muscle  may 
also  be  men  of  brains. 

But  "  Tommy " — I  beg  his  lordship's  pardon,  I  mean 
Mr  Justice  Bucknill,  was  what  neither  of  these  fine  boxers 
could  ever  claim  to  be :  he  was  a  first-rate  horseman,  and 
at  one  time  promised  to  take  high  rank  among  the  gentle- 
men riders  of  England  both  on  the  flat  and  across  country. 
But  for  a  serious  affection  of  the  eyes,  which  for  many 
anxious  months  threatened  to  deprive  him  altogether  of 
sight,  he  would  probably  have  made  a  considerable  name 


SPORTSMEN   OF   BENCH   AND    BAR  349 

for  himself  as  a  jockey.  There  is  a  story  that  he  rode  and 
won  a  steeplechase  when  he  was  only  a  boy  of  ten.  He 
still  retains  his  light  hands  and  a  good  seat,  as  all  who  have 
seen  him  riding  to  hounds  can  testify.  A  few  seasons  ago 
he  had  a  bad  fall  in  the  hunting-field,  but  he  has,  I  am 
glad  to  say,  recovered  from  the  effects,  and  will,  I  hope,  for 
many  a  long  day  show  the  world  that  a  man  may  have 
passed  sixty  and  be  a  judge  without  losing  his  love  of  sport 
or  his  power  to  enjoy  it. 

The  present  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England,  Lord 
Alverstone,  was  a  famous  runner  in  his  'Varsity  days. 
Cambridge  knew  that  she  was  sure  of  the  Two  Mile  Race 
when  Dick  Webster  of  Trinity  was  her  representative. 
He  was  a  fair  rifle-shot  too  ;  I  have  shot  with  him  at  the 
Cherry  Hinton  Butts  at  Cambridge,  and  seen  him  pile  up  a 
very  creditable  score  at  the  short  ranges.  Lord  Alverstone 
also  takes  a  keen  interest  in  cricket,  and  is  President  of  the 
Surrey  Cricket  Club. 

Another  eminent  member  of  the  Bar  who  was  a  noted 
sportsman  in  his  early  days  is  Mr  Thomas  Milvain,  K.C., 
leader  of  the  Northern  Circuit.  "  Tom  "  Milvain  had  a 
big  reputation  as  a  boxer  and  hurdle-racer  when  he  was  up 
at  Trinity  Hall,  and  he  was  a  good  quarter-miler  to  boot. 
Trained  and  fit,  he  looked  the  picture  of  an  athlete. 
"  Tom  "  was  great  in  Town  and  Gown  rows,  as  the  roughs 
of  Cambridge  found  to  their  cost.  He  was  a  heavy-weight, 
and  a  very  hard  hitter,  but  on  one  occasion  the  "  Town  " 
got  the  best  of  him. 

Milvain  and  another  man  of  his  own  college  were  leading 
a  party  of  gownsmen  down  Green  Street,  the  townsmen 
retreating  before  them,  for  no  one  was  bold  enough  to 
tackle  the  redoubtable  Tom  of  "  The  Hall."  Suddenly 
the  "  Town  "  rallied  and  faced  the  "  Gown."  "  We've  got 
a  chap  as'll  fight  the  best  of  ye ! "  they  yelled.  Milvain 
strode  forward  to  meet  this  unknown  champion.  The 
opposing  ranks  opened,  and  six  lusty  roughs,  with  a  barge- 
pole as  battering-ram,  charged  straight  at  Tom.  Before 
he  could  move,  the  barge-pole  took  him  full  in  the  pit  of 
the  stomach,  doubled  him  up,  and  he  fell  gasping  for  breath 
and  half  dead.     With  a  whoop  of  triumph  the  "  Town  "  fled. 


350  SPORTING   STORIES 

leaving  the  barge-pole  behind  them,  whilst  the  "Gown" 
gathered  round  their  fallen  leader. 

But  never  again  did  the  "  Town  "  score  a  point  against 
the  great  bruiser,  who  carried  off  subsequently,  once  at 
least,  if  not  twice,  the  Amateur  Heavy-weight  Champion- 
ship of  England. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

A  GOSSIP  ON  HUNTING  MEN 

I  DO  not  suppose  that  William  Somervile,  the  poet  of 
"  The  Chace,"  is  much  read  nowadays,  though,  doubtless,  his 
poems  lie  among  the  neglected  classics  in  the  libraries  of 
most  country  houses.  Yet  he  can  lay  better  claim  than  any 
other  bard  to  the  title  of  "  Laureate  of  the  Hunting-field," 
and  he  was  a  royal  good  sportsman  to  boot.  "  A  squire, 
well  born  and  six  foot  high,"  is  his  own  description  of 
himself  to  his  brother  poet,  Allan  Ramsay  ;  and  among 
the  squires  of  his  native  Warwickshire  he  held  a  foremost 
place.  For  his  estates  brought  him  in;^i5oo  a  year — a 
rental  equivalent  to  at  least  ;^4000  in  the  present  day.  A 
jovial  soul  he  was,  too,  with  a  heart  as  big  as  his  body, 
generous  to  a  fault,  and  free-handed  with  his  money. 
William  Somervile,  like  many  good  sportsmen  of  the 
same  type,  ran  through  his  patrimony  before  he  was  forty. 
He  died  in  1742,  and  was  buried  at  Wotton,  near  Henley- 
in-Arden. 

No  one  has  depicted  with  more  animation  and  spirit 
than  Somervile  the  opening  of  the  hunting  season  ;  and 
there  are  at  any  rate  three  lines  of  his  which  are  familiar  to 
all  educated  sportsmen,  if  only  through  Mr  Jorrocks's 
emendation  : — 

"  My  hoarse-sounding  Horn 
Invites  thee  to  the  Chace,  the  Sport  of  Kings  ; 
Image  of  War,  without  its  Guih." 

"  The  sport  of  kings  "  is  nowadays  more  often  applied 
to  the  Turf,  in  the  absence  of  Royalty  from  the  hunting- 
field.  English  statesmen,  too,  no  longer  ride  to  hounds 
as  they  once  did.  Golf  seems  to  have  more  charms  for 
Ministers  than   hunting.     Time   was  when  Premiers   and 

351 


352  SPORTING   STORIES 

Secretaries  of  State  were  figures  as  familiar  at  a  meet  of 
hounds  as  at  a  meeting  of  the  Cabinet.  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  Lord  Althorp,  Lord 
Palmerston,  Earl  Granville,  were  all  hard  riders  to  hounds, 
and  loved  no  sport  better  than  the  chase.  Mr  Gladstone, 
in  his  earlier  days,  was  to  be  seen  mounted  on  his  old  white 
mare,  galloping  after  hounds  with  his  friend  and  Parlia- 
mentary patron,  the  Duke  of  Newcastle.  And  I  have  met 
those  who  remember  the  "  Grand  Old  Man "  at  a  still 
earlier  period  of  his  career,  in  Berwickshire,  keeping  close 
up  to  Willie  Hay  of  Dunse  Castle  during  a  hard  run. 
And  this,  let  me  tell  you,  was  no  mean  feat,  for  Willie 
Hay,  when  mounted  on  his  famous  hunter,  Crafty,  despite 
his  welter-weight,  was  hard  to  beat.  In  fact,  he  nearly 
always  led  the  field  with  Crafty  under  him  ;  and  after  a 
bursting  hour  and  twenty  minutes  the  horse  seemed  as 
fit  as  his  master,  for  both  were  thoroughbred.  Willie,  to 
distinguish  him  from  others  of  his  numerous  clan,  was 
known  as  "  Hay  of  Drumelzier."  He  came  of  Tweeddale 
blood  on  his  mother's  side,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  the 
ancestral  reiver  about  him.  He  was  present  at  Waterloo 
as  a  spectator,  like  the  Duke  of  Richmond  ;  but  tradition 
has  it  that,  unable  to  control  himself  at  the  sound  of  battle, 
he  dashed  incontinently  into  the  fray  and  rode  right 
through  one  of  the  cavalry  charges  unhurt — more  fortunate 
than  his  younger  brother,  an  officer  in  a  Highland  regiment, 
who  was  slain  on  the  slopes  of  Mont  St  Jean. 

The  late  Earl  of  Wemyss,  then  Lord  Elcho,  was  another 
Scotsman  who  had  a  reputation  for  dare-devil  riding.  As 
a  youngster  he  had  "  made  things  hum  "  to  such  a  tune 
that  his  father  found  it  necessary  to  screw  him  up  tightly. 
But  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  getting  a  pack  of 
hounds  together  in  1830.  He  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
his  huntsman  at  the  commencement  of  his  first  season — 
the  man  broke  his  leg,  and  died  from  the  effects  of  the 
accident — and  Lord  Elcho  hunted  the  hounds  himself  In 
this  capacity  he  showed  that  he  could  combine  with  hard 
riding  a  creditable  amount  of  Scottish  canniness  and 
caution. 

In  Joe  Hogg,  moreover,  he  had  a  capable  first  whip,  a 


A   GOSSIP   ON   HUNTING   MEN     353 

man  who  would  follow  wherever  the  master  or  the  hounds 
led.  One  day  the  fox  made  for  a  bog  and  crossed  it,  the 
hounds  following  in  pursuit,  while  behind  them  came  Lord 
Elcho  and  Joe  Hogg.  Next  day  someone  asked,  "  Joe, 
how  did  you  feel  when  you  were  following  his  lordship 
over  the  bog  ?  "  "  Lord,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  I  did  expect  to  be 
swallowed  fairly  up  alive  every  time  my  horse  jumped,  but 
nothing  else  could  be  done,  for  the  hounds  were  running 
right  into  him."  The  bog  was  a  mile  and  a  half  across, 
and  the  frost  was  just  enough  to  make  firm  the  driest 
parts,  which  admitted  of  the  horses  jumping  from  one 
tussock  of  grass  to  another. 

Lord  Saltoun,  an  excellent  horseman,  had  the  pluck  to 
ride  down  the  jagged  steep  of  Berwick  Law.  He  shone, 
too,  at  the  festive  board,  where  his  rendering  of  the  "  Man 
with  the  Wooden  Leg  "  and  other  comic  songs  of  the  day 
always  brought  down  the  house.  He  fought  at  Waterloo, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  in  the  defence  of  Hougo- 
mont,  and  afterwards  remained  in  France  with  the  army  of 
occupation.     And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

While  in  quarters  at  St  Denis,  Lord  Saltoun,  Lord 
William  Lennox,  Sim  Fairfield,  and  one  or  two  more  found 
their  beds  occupied  when  they  got  to  their  billets  in  an 
hotel  one  night.  A  French  cavalry  regiment  had  ridden  up, 
and  the  officers  had  taken  possession  of  every  bedroom  and 
locked  themselves  in.  The  Britishers  were  by  no  means 
disposed  to  submit  tamely  to  this  unceremonious  invasion. 
They  held  a  council  of  war,  and  a  bright  idea  suggested 
itself  to  Lord  Saltoun.  First,  the  waiter  and  ostler  were 
bribed  to  secrecy.  Then  the  conspirators  went  softly  to 
work  and  changed  the  boots  which  stood  outside  each 
door.  When  this  was  done,  Sim  Fairfield,  who  could  play 
any  instrument  from  a  jews'  harp  to  a  trombone,  got  hold 
of  a  trumpet  and  sounded  the  French  "  boot  and  saddle." 
In  an  instant  every  Frenchman  was  out  of  bed — doors 
were  opened,  boots  eagerly  snatched,  and  then — the  band 
began  to  play !  Never  was  heard  such  scrambling  and 
swearing.  Men  with  large  feet  had  got  hold  of  small 
boots ;  men  with  small  feet  found  themselves  lost  in 
"jacks."     They  tugged  and  cursed,  till  they  all  got  outside 

23 


354  SPORTING   STORIES 

and  finally  galloped  off.  Then  Lord  Saltoun  and  his 
brother  plotters  quickly  took  possession  of  the  vacant  beds, 
barricaded  their  doors,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

About  four  miles  from  Campbeltown,  in  the  Mull  of 
Kintyre,  a  lovely  glen  runs  right  up  into  the  heart  of  the 
wooded  hill-side.  In  the  foreground,  among  its  trim  lawns, 
stands  Saddell  House ;  close  by  are  the  ruins  of  a  grim  old 
castle-keep ;  and  one  can  trace  the  venerable  avenue  of 
stately  beeches  which  leads  to  the  ancient  abbey  where 
the  old  monks  of  Saddell  enjoyed  themselves  six  hundred 
years  ago.  It  is  a  place  which  has  a  peculiar  interest  for 
sportsmen,  for  it  was  the  home  of  John  Campbell  of 
Saddell,  whose  hunting  songs  have  won  for  him  in 
Scotland  a  reputation  as  great  as  that  of  Whyte-Melville 
or  Egerton  Warburton  in  England — a  man,  too,  who 
could  not  only  write  good  songs,  but  sing  them  as  no  one 
else  could. 

"  Johnny  "  Campbell  was  a  welter-weight,  scaling  some- 
thing like  sixteen  stone,  yet  he  was  always  in  the  first 
flight.  He  chose  his  horses  more  for  strength  than 
appearance,  and  seldom  rode  one  over  fifteen  hands,  but 
they  were  all  short  legged  and  well  bred.  When  he  was  at 
Melton  Mowbray  in  1832  he  was  looked  upon  as  the 
maddest  of  Scotsmen,  because,  in  trying  to  save  his 
horses,  he  would  jump  into  the  hedges  instead  oi  over  them, 
quite  regardless  of  the  consequences  to  himself;  for,  like 
Assheton  Smith,  the  Laird  of  Saddell  did  not  mind  how 
many  falls  he  got.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  and 
when  dressed  at  night  in  his  scarlet  coat  with  green  facings 
and  buff  breeches  (the  uniform  of  the  Buccleuch  Hunt)  his 
equal  would  have  been  hard  to  find  in  the  three  kingdoms. 

It  is  not  often  that  the  qualities  of  poet,  singer,  bon 
vivant,  and  sportsman  are  found  combined  in  one  person- 
ality, as  they  were  in  "Johnny"  Campbell,  and  conse- 
quently it  is  not  surprising  that  the  Laird  of  Saddell  was 
immensely  popular,  or  that  he  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
convivial  parties,  where  he  would  sometimes  improvise  a 
song,  setting  it  to  an  air  and  singing  it  the  same  evening. 
When  he  was  a  guest  at  Rossie  Priory,  Lord  Kinnaird's 
Perthshire  seat,  in   1831,  they  had  had  a  famous  run  with 


A    GOSSIP   ON    HUNTING   MEN     355 

Mr  Dalzell's  hounds,  and,  taking  that  for  his  theme,  he 
rattled  off  a  parody  of  "  We  have  been  friends  together." 
Beginning  with  "  VVe  have  seen  a  run  together,"  he  de- 
scribed the  run  throughout,  and  concluded  with  : 

"  By  Auchter  House  he  hied  him, 
Still  haunted  by  their  cry, 
Till  in  Belmont  Park  we  spied  him, 
When  we  knew  that  he  must  die. 
Through  the  hedge  he  made  one  double 

As  his  sinking  soul  did  droop  ; 
'Twas  the  end  of  all  his  trouble 
When  we  gave  the  shrill  Who-whoop  ! 
Oh  !  now  then  let  us  rally  ; 
Let  us  toast  the  joyous  tally, 
And  a  bumper  to  our  ally. 
The  gallant  John  Dalzell." 

But  there  were  times  when  "  Johnny  "  Campbell  was  not 
altogether  a  desirable  companion  to  those  who  valued 
their  lives  and  limbs  ;  for  he  had  a  strong  smack  of  Jack 
Mytton's  devilry  in  him,  and  did  not  care  a  rap  for  his  own 
skin  or  that  of  any  of  his  companions.  One  night — or 
rather  morning — a  party  of  four  gentlemen,  including 
"Johnny "  Campbell  and  Sir  David  Baird,  who  had  been 
dining  at  Marchmont  House,  started  home  to  Dunse  in  a 
post-chaise.  After  passing  through  the  park  gates  the 
post-boy  got  down  to  close  them.  Campbell  thereupon 
leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  with  a  terrific  "  Who-oo-op 
awa',"  set  the  horses  off  in  a  panic.  There  was  an  open 
drain  in  front  of  them,  a  big  mound  of  earth  to  the  left, 
and  a  lake  to  the  right.  What  the  fate  of  the  chaise  and 
its  occupants  would  have  been  had  not  the  post-boy,  who 
was  a  particularly  smart  young  fellow,  sprinted  to  the 
horses'  heads  and  stopped  them,  one  shudders  to  conjecture. 
Campbell  laughed  heartily,  and  thought  it  was  an  excellent 
joke.  Sir  David,  son  of  the  hero  of  Seringapatam,  and  a 
dare-devil  himself  of  a  different  kind,  preserved  a  saturnine 
indifference ;  but  the  other  two  were  scared  almost  out  of 
their  senses.  Never  again  would  either  of  them  trust 
himself  in  anything  on  wheels  with  Campbell  of  Saddell  ; 
for,  as  one  of  them  remarked,  "  Johnny  Campbell  is  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  companions — anywhere  but  in  a  post- 
chaise  " 


356  SPORTING   STORIES 

Charlie  Lamb,  half-brother  to  Lord  Eglinton,  too,  was 
another  of  the  right  sort,  who  could  hold  his  own  with  the 
best  on  the  race-course  or  with  hounds.  But  Charlie  had, 
what  Lord  Eglinton  lacked,  a  dry  humour,  of  which  this 
anecdote  of  his  earlier  years  is  a  sample  : — 

"  Why  don't  you  send  Charlie  to  sea  ?  "  an  old  friend  and 
a  right  honourable  old  maid  one  day  said  to  the  Countess, 
his  mother.  "It  is  very  bad  for  a  young  man  to  be  idling 
away  his  time  at  home." 

After  a  short  pause,  Charlie,  who  was  present,  furnished 
the  answer  himself. 

"Do  you  not  think,"  said  he,  "a  stomach-pump  would 
answer  as  well  ?  " 

But  let  me  turn  to  England  and  her  fox-hunters.  The 
name  of  John  Warde  is,  of  course,  familiar  as  a  household 
word  to  everyone  who  takes  the  slightest  interest  in  hunting- 
lore,  for  was  he  not  one  of  the  greatest  among  the  "  fathers 
of  fox-hunting  "  ? 

There  are  some  stories  of  John  Warde  which  will,  I  dare 
say,  be  new  to  many  of  my  readers.  Richard  Tattersall, 
the  then  head  of  the  famous  house,  always  gave  a  "  Derby 
Dinner,"  to  which  some  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
the  day  were  invited.  John  Warde  never  missed  this 
function — indeed,  the  festive  occasion  would  have  been 
nothing  without  him  to  represent  fox-hunting.  The  pipe 
of  port  which  the  host  and  his  brother  Edmund  laid  down 
annually  had  to  pay  a  heavy  tax,  for  each  man  had  to 
drink  "John  Warde  and  the  Noble  Science"  in  a  silver 
fox's-head  which  held  nearly  a  pint  and  admitted  of  no 
heel-taps.  None  stood  the  ordeal  better  than  "glorious 
John"  himself;  he  would  rise  from  the  table  steady  as  a 
rock,  and  before  he  left  always  made  a  point  of  going  up 
to  the  drawing-room  in  the  small  hours  to  bid  Mrs 
Tattersall  good-bye,  for  that  good  lady  never  went  to  bed 
till  she  had  seen  her  husband  precede  her. 

His  mother  lived  to  a  great  age,  and  became  very  deaf, 
but  she  had  her  page-boy  in  every  Sunday  to  say  his 
Collect  and  Catechism,  and  although  she  could  not  hear  a 
word  he  said,  yet  from  the  earnest  expression  of  his  face 
and  his  never  hesitating  she  took  it  for  granted  that  he 


A   GOSSIP   ON    HUNTING   MEN     357 

repeated  them  properly,  and  invariably  gave  him  a  shilling. 
John,  however,  getting  a  hint  that  the  young  rascal  imposed 
upon  the  good-natured  lady,  hid  himself  in  the  room  one 
Sunday  morning.  As  usual,  young  Buttons  was  called  up 
and  requested  to  commence  his  religious  exercise ;  then, 
with  a  perfectly  solemn  face,  he  began,  "  Hey  diddle  diddle, 
the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over  the  moon," 
and  so  on,  to  the  end  of  the  old  nursery  rhyme.  "  There's 
a  good  boy,"  said  the  old  lady,  putting  into  his  hand  a 
shilling.  But  just  as  Master  Hopeful  was  departing 
jubilant,  whack  came  the  whip  with  which  John  had 
provided  himself,  and  the  welting  he  got  made  him  re- 
member Collect  and  Catechism  for  many  a  day. 

Warde  attained  the  patriarchal  age  of  85.  Like  all 
sportsmen  of  the  "  golden  time,"  he  was  a  bon  vivant,  but 
in  his  last  days  he  had  to  give  up  wine.  By  a  strange 
irony  of  fate,  he  died  of  water  on  the  chest.  "  This  is  a 
pretty  business,"  he  said.  "  Here  is  a  man  dying  of  water 
who  never  drank  but  one  glassful  of  that  nauseous  liquid 
in  his  life." 

Many  years  ago  the  younger  son  of  a  gentleman  in  the 
North  of  England  was  foolish  enough  to  fall  in  love  with 
one  of  his  father's  maid-servants,  and  quixotic  enough  to 
marry  her.  As  soon  as  the  news  came  to  the  parental 
ears,  the  imprudent  Benedict  was  turned  out  of  doors,  his 
only  worldly  possession  being  a  Southern  hound  in  pup. 
He  and  his  partner  in  disgrace  started  for  London,  and 
after  a  while  the  young  man  succeeded  in  obtaining  a 
situation  in  an  attorney's  office  at  £60  a  year.  As  time 
went  on,  olive-branches  gathered  about  him  to  the  tune 
of  half  a  dozen,  from  which  it  may  be  supposed  he  had 
enough  to  do  to  keep  eight  sets  of  teeth  in  work.  Yet  he 
not  only  discharged  these  onerous  domestic  duties,  but  also 
enjoyed  his  favourite  sport,  and  kept  a  couple  of  horses 
and  two  couples  of  hounds. 

But  how,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  could  he  afford  to  keep 
horses  and  hounds  ?  Of  course  he  neglected  his  home  and 
business,  and  ended  his  days  in  the  workhouse.  Noth- 
ing of  the  kind  !  His  wife  and  children  were  well  fed  and 
comfortably  clothed,  he  never  ran  into  debt,  and  always 


358  SPORTING    STORIES 

had  a  decent  coat  on  his  back.  And  the  way  he  managed 
it  was  this. 

After  office  hours  he  acted  as  accountant  for  certain 
butchers  in  Clare  Market,  who  paid  him  in  kind.  The  best 
of  the  meat  provided  the  daily  dinner  for  himself  and  family, 
and  the  scraps  and  offal  fed  the  hounds,  which  he  kept  in 
his  garret.  Having  saved  up  sufficient  to  buy  his  horses,  he 
stabled  them  in  a  cellar,  fed  them  on  grain  from  a  brew- 
house  close  by  and  damaged  corn  from  a  chandler's — 
writing  letters,  correcting  bills,  keeping  books,  and  assisting 
the  proprietors  with  legal  information,  and  so  saving  all 
expenditure  of  coin.  Down  in  the  country  where  he 
hunted  during  the  season  he  gained  the  goodwill  of  the 
farmers  by  giving  them  a  hare  now  and  then  and  tipping 
them  a  legal  hint,  while  the  gentlemen  over  whose  manors 
he  rode  were  so  delighted  with  his  enthusiasm  for  sport 
that  he  could  go  almost  where  he  pleased.  If  any  poor 
hunting  enthusiast  of  to-day  were  to  keep  hounds  in  a 
garret  and  horses  in  a  cellar,  he  would  meet  with  a  very 
different  fate  ;  he  would  promptly  be  indicted  as  a  nuisance, 
and  summarily  be  suppressed  by  the  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  Times  are  indeed 
changed ! 

The  poet  of  "  the  Chace,"  whom  I  have  already  quoted, 
describes  hunting  as  the  "image  of  war  without  its  guilt." 
It  is  not  only  the  "  image  of  war,"  but  it  is  the  finest 
possible  training  for  facing  the  perils  and  confronting 
the  crises  of  actual  warfare.  The  following  anecdote 
of  a  once  famous  Leicestershire  hunting  man,  "  Tommy  " 
Yule,  is  one  of  the  best  illustrations  of  this  truth  that  I 
have  come  across. 

On  the  night  of  5th  December  1857,  the  nth  Native 
Cavalry,  stationed  at  Jalpaiguri,  650  strong,  mutinied 
during  the  night,  slew  their  English  officers,  and  galloped 
off  to  meet  the  other  portion  of  the  regiment,  then  encamped 
some  thirty  miles  off.  Next  day,  having  effected  a  junction 
with  their  comrades,  they  started  to  join  the  revolted 
Sepoys  at  Dacca.  They  rode  in  the  direction  of  Purneah, 
with  the  intention  of  plundering  that  station  on  their  way 
to  the  North- West.     But  they  left  out  of  their  calculations 


A   GOSSIP   ON   HUNTING    MEN     359 

a  little  man  who  was  John  Company's  Commissioner  at 
Bhagalpur.  Mr  Yule  was  an  old  Leicestershire  hunting 
man,  and  was  one  of  the  most  daring  riders  to  hounds 
ever  seen  in  the  Shires.  He  had  ridden  at  both  New- 
market and  Liverpool  as  a  gentleman  jockey ;  he  could 
box,  shoot,  fence,  and  play  cricket  in  brilliant  style — in 
fact,  was  a  first-rate  all-round  man.  He  knew  very  little 
about  soldiering,  but  he  knew  too  much  for  the  Pandies. 

Well,  to  "  Tommy "  Yule  the  news  was  brought  that 
the  mutineers  were  "  on  the  rampage."  At  Bhagalpur  he 
had  with  him  fifty  of  Her  Majesty's  5th  Regiment,  100 
sailors,  and  two  guns.  As  Commissioner  of  the  district,  he 
was  in  command.  Off  he  started  without  a  moment's  delay, 
came  up  with  the  rebels  just  outside  Purneah,  and  dashed 
at  them  at  once.  They,  however,  had  no  heart  for  fighting, 
bolted,  got  round  the  station,  and  made  off  for  Dacca.  But 
Yule's  blood  was  up.  He  had  brought  his  stud  of  hunting 
elephants  with  him.  He  mounted  fifty  sailors  and  forty 
soldiers  on  them,  and  pounded  after  the  flying  foe.  The 
little  party  marched  all  day  and  night,  and  got  in  front  of 
their  quarry  the  following  morning.  Then  the  rascals  had 
to  fight — ten  Pandies  to  one  Englishman.  They  could  not 
charge :  their  horses  were  fagged  out.  But  Yule  charged 
them,  with  some  of  his  men  on  the  elephants  and  some  on 
foot,  and  killed  1 1 1  without  losing  a  man.  And  the  nerve, 
the  pluck,  the  dash  which  achieved  that  brilliant  success  had 
been  fostered  and  trained  by  hard  riding  over  the  pastures 
and  bullfinches  of  Leicestershire. 

I  remember  hearing  Lord  Wolseley  tell  the  following 
story,  which  is  a  further  proof  of  my  assertion  that  hunting 
develops  a  man's  pluck  and  confidence: — 

"  I  once  saw,"  he  said,  "  a  Staff  officer,  a  man  well  known 
in  the  hunting-field,  gallop  with  an  order  to  a  column  of 
cavalry  which  had  been  drawn  up  in  a  sheltered  position  be- 
hind the  village  to  be  screened  from  the  enemy's  fire.  As 
he  drew  near  the  column,  a  round-shot  struck  the  ground 
under  his  horse's  belly.  The  horse  made  an  effort  to  swerve, 
which  was  checked  by  its  rider,  without  taking  the  cigar  out 
of  his  mouth.  He  galloped  up  to  the  column,  coolly  gave 
his  orders,  and  cantered  back  over  the  open  ground,  where 


360  SPORTING    STORIES 

the  round-shot  were  striking  pretty  thickly,  still  smoking  his 
cigar,  as  if  he  were  taking  his  morning  exercise.  A  few 
shots  had  previously  plunged  into  the  column,  causing  the 
excitement  which  always  happens  when  horses  get  knocked 
over;  but  the  calm  indifference  of  this  officer,  and  the 
manner  in  which  he  appeared  altogether  to  ignore  the 
existence  of  danger,  had  a  capital  effect  upon  the  men," 

Lord  Wolseley  did  not  give  the  name  of  the  officer,  but 
I  have  been  told  that  it  was  "  Bob "  Wood,  sometime 
Colonel  of  the  8th  Hussars. 

Lord  Roberts,  after  his  great  campaign  in  Afghanistan, 
declared  that  one  of  the  most  valuable  Staff  officers  in 
the  British  Army  was  Lord  Melgund  (the  present  Earl 
of  Minto),  who  had  few  equals  in  those  days  as  a  cross- 
country rider. 

The  late  Earl  of  Wilton,  one  of  the  finest  horsemen  ever 
seen,  heard  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  remark  that 
"  England  would  rue  the  day  when  her  field-sports  were 
abandoned,"  and  that  "  his  best  officers  were  those  who  had 
most  distinguished  themselves  in  the  hunting- field." 

The  "  Iron  Duke  "  himself  was  a  keen  lover  of  the  sport, 
and  a  hard  rider.  He  kept  fifteen  horses,  and  paid  high 
prices  for  them  ;  and  when  one  reads  of  so  much  gallop- 
ing to  and  fro  one  is  not  surprised  at  the  number  of  the 
Duke's  stud. 

Here  is  an  extract  from  the  journal  of  Mr  Larpent,  Judge- 
Advocate  of  the  Forces,  which  illustrates  the  tireless  energy 
and  the  keen  sportsmanship  of  the  Duke  : — 

"  Lord  Wellington  is  quite  well  again,  and  was  out 
hunting  on  Thursday.  To-day  he  was  to  set  out  at  seven 
in  the  morning  for  the  review  of  General  Cole's  division, 
about  twenty-eight  miles  from  here,  be  on  the  ground  about 
ten,  and  back  to  dinner  by  four  or  five  o'clock.  He  has  a 
notion  that  exercise  makes  headquarters  more  healthy  than 
the  rest  of  the  Army,  and  that  the  hounds  are  one  great 
cause  of  this." 

Of  these  hounds  Mr  Larpent  writes : — "  We  have  three 
odd  packs  of  hounds  here.  Firstly,  Lord  Wellington's,  or, 
as  he  is  called  here,  '  the  Peer's ' ;  these  are  fox-hounds, 
about  sixteen  couples  ;  they  have  only  killed  one  fox  this 


A   GOSSIP   ON    HUNTING   MEN     361 

year,  and  from  want  of  a  huntsman  they  straggle  about  and 
run  very  ill.  From  a  hard  rock  sometimes  the  horse  gets  up 
to  his  belly  in  wet,  gravelly  sand  ;  thus  we  have  many  horses 
lamed  and  some  bad  falls.  The  next  set  of  hounds  are 
numerous.  The  Commissary-General,  Sir  R,  Kennedy,  is 
a  great  man  in  this  way,  and  several  others.  And  thirdly, 
Captain  Morherre,  the  principal  man  of  this  place,  has  an 
old  poacher  in  his  establishment,  with  a  dozen  terriers, 
mongrels,  and  ferrets,  and  he  goes  out  with  the  officers  to 
get  rabbits.  Lord  Wellington  has  a  good  stud  of  hunters. 
He  rides  hard,  and  only  wants  a  good  gallop,  but  I  under- 
stand knows  nothing  of  the  sport,  though  very  fond  of  it 
in  his  own  way." 

The  Duke,  as  many  readers  are  aware,  was  a  warm  friend 
and  admirer  of  Thomas  Assheton  Smith,  whom  Napoleon 
introduced  to  his  officers  as  "  le  premier  chasseur  d'Angle- 
terre."  And  it  was  always  a  subject  of  regret  to  the  hero 
of  Waterloo  that  Assheton  Smith  had  not  joined  the  Army. 
"  For,"  said  the  Duke,  "  he  would  have  made  one  of  the  best 
cavalry  officers  in  Europe  " ;  and  he  frequently  remarked 
that  many  of  his  cavalry  officers  in  the  Peninsular  War 
owed  their  horsemanship  to  the  example  of  Assheton 
Smith. 

I  have  said  that  the  Duke  took  a  keen  interest  in  hunting, 
and  I  may  add  that  he  gave  practical  proof  of  his  love  of 
the  sport;  for  when  he  was  once  asked  to  subscribe  to  a 
pack  which  was  in  financial  difficulties  he  said,  "  Get  what 
you  can,  and  put  my  name  down  for  the  difference."  The 
"  difference  "  was  £600  a  year,  which  the  Duke  cheerfully 
paid  for  many  years. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

AN  OLD  SQUIRE'S  DIARY  AND  A 
CAVALIER'S  NOTEBOOK 

Old  diaries  and  journals  have  always  had  a  fascination  for 
me,  and  I  think  most  people  are  interested  in  these  pictures 
of  the  daily  lives  of  their  forefathers.  They  put  us  on 
intimate  terms  with  our  ancestors,  and  tell  us  how  they 
really  passed  their  time,  and  what  were  their  pursuits  and 
amusements.  Now  one  of  the  earliest  of  these  domestic 
chronicles  is  the  journal  of  Nicholas  Assheton,  lord  of  the 
manor  of  Downham,  near  Clitheroe,  in  Lancashire,  during 
the  years  1617  and  i6i8.  The  writer  appears  to  have  been 
a  typical  English  squire,  and  the  diary,  no  doubt,  was  kept 
purely  for  his  own  amusement.  He  would  have  been 
amazed,  and  perhaps  somewhat  dismayed,  had  he  guessed 
that  his  frank  and  simple  jottings  would  be  handed  down 
to  posterity ;  for  he  writes  without  any  caution  or  reserve, 
and  makes  no  secret  of  his  peccadilloes.  Fox-hunting, 
otter-hunting,  shooting,  cocking,  fishing,  foot-racing,  horse- 
racing,  tippling,  and  dicing  seem  to  have  occupied  most  of 
his  time  and  thoughts,  though  he  never  fails  to  record  the 
fact  of  his  attending  church  twice  every  Sunday,  and 
generally  gives  the  texts  of  the  parson's  two  sermons. 
The  squire  had  to  set  a  good  example,  and  felt  it  his 
bounden  duty,  as  a  pillar  of  Church  and  State,  to  attend 
divine  service  regularly  on  Sunday  mornings  and  after- 
noons. 

After  this  severe  religious  exercise  it  was  only  natural 
that  he  should  unbend  in  the  later  part  of  the  day,  and 
consequently  he  generally  spent  his  Sunday  evenings 
tippling  in  the  ale-house — sometimes  alone,  sometimes 
with    the  parson    from  whose  sermons  he  had  derived  so 

362 


AN   OLD    SQUIRE'S    DIARY         363 

much  edification  a  few  hours  before.  I  don't  know  on 
what  topics  the  tipplers  conversed,  but  I  doubt  whether 
they  confined  themselves  to  theology. 

The  ale-house  or  inn  played  an  important  part  in  the 
life  of  the  country  gentlemen  of  that  day.  The  Lancashire 
gentry  of  Nicholas  Assheton's  time  seem  to  have  kept  very 
little  wine  in  their  own  cellars,  and  it  was  their  custom  after 
dinner  to  adjourn  to  the  nearest  inn  and  quietly  fuddle 
themselves  till  it  was  time  to  go  home  to  bed.  One  needs 
no  better  proof  of  the  excellent  quality  of  the  liquor  which 
the  innkeepers  of  that  day  provided  for  their  customers. 

It  will  shock  sportsmen  of  the  present  day  to  hear  what 
lax  ideas  Squire  Assheton  had  on  the  subject  of  fox- 
hunting. There  was  no  close-time  for  foxes  then.  They 
were  hunted  all  the  year  round,  and  indeed  were  regarded 
as  vermin.  A  penny  a  head  was  paid  by  the  parish 
authorities  for  every  fox's  mask,  and  these  trophies  were 
nailed  to  the  door  of  the  parish  church.  The  fox  was  as 
often  coursed  with  greyhounds  as  hunted  with  hounds,  and 
if  a  fox  could  not  be  found  a  rabbit  or  a  badger  did  just 
as  well.  Here  is  an  entry  in  point:— "June  24th.  To 
Worston  Brook.  Tryed  for  a  foxe,  found  nothing.  Towler 
lay  at  a  rabbit  and  wee  stayed  and  wrought  and  took  her. 
Home  to  Downham  to  a  foote  race."  Again  : — "  June  25th. 
I  hounded  and  killed  a  bitch  foxe.  After  that  to  Salthill. 
There  we  had  a  bowson  [badger].  Wee  wrought  him  out 
and  killed  him."  From  which  I  gather  that  the  hounds, 
like  their  master,  were  not  particular  what  they  hunted. 

As  to  the  convivial  propensities  of  our  Squire,  let  the 
following  candid  entries  suffice  : — "  July  3rd.  I  and 
Richard  Sherburne  to  Sladeborne.  It  rayned ;  so  we 
stayed  and  tippled  most  of  the  day  and  were  too  foolish," 
Again: — "Aug.  19th.  All  this  morning  we  played  the 
bacchanalians ;  at  night  as  merrie  as  Robin  Hood  and  all 
his  fellowes. — Dec.  3rd.  Went  to  Mr  Parkinson,  the 
steward — somewhat  too  busie  with  drink. — June  2nd.  We 
all  to  Pescod  to  a  cocking,  very  pleasant ;  tables  (dice  and 
cards)  all  night  ;  made  more  than  merrie." 

In  this  respect,  however,  Nicholas  was  no  worse  than 
most  of  his  class.     He  was  not  a  sot,  and  his  head  was 


364  SPORTING    STORIES 

generally  clear  enough  in  the  morning  to  enable  him  to 
attend  to  the  business  of  his  estate  ;  for  he  seems  to  have 
been  a  good  manager,  a  liberal  landlord,  an  obliging 
neighbour,  and  an  honourable  gentleman  in  his  dealings 
with  all  men. 

But  to  return  to  his  sports.  Fishing,  I  regret  to  say,  he 
generally  carried  on  with  casting-nets  :  an  unsportsman- 
like proceeding  to  modern  ideas.  Shooting  was  a  some- 
what barren  sort  of  amusement,  to  judge  from  such 
entries  as  these : — "  Had  some  sport  at  moor-game  with  my 
piece,  but  killed  not."  "To  Rowe  Moor  and  there  killed 
three  heath-cocks,"  "With  brother  Sherburne  went  to 
Harrope  and  Skelfshawe  Fells  with  gunnes,  shott  at  a 
moor-cock,  struck  feathers  off  and  missed."  Doubtless 
they  shot  at  the  game  sitting — with  the  clumsy  fowling- 
piece  of  those  days  it  would  have  been  almost  impossible 
to  hit  a  bird  upon  the  wing. 

Here  is  a  pathetic  entry  in  which  our  Squire  bewails  his 
inability  to  go  hunting,  for  reasons  which  I  think  will  come 
home  to  the  heart  of  many  a  sportsman  to-day: — "Teeth 
lanced.  Toothache,  headache,  cold,  and  rheume."  Life 
was  not  all  beer  and  skittles  even  in  those  good  old  days. 

There  was  another  ailment,  too,  only  too  common,  alas, 
in  our  day,  from  which  our  Squire  occasionally  suffered, 
viz.  what  Theodore  Hook  wittily  called  "  tightness  of  the 
chest  "  !  In  witness  whereof  take  this  item  : — "  August  2ist. 
I  to  Boulton  to  Parson  Emmot.  Would  have  borrowed 
^30,  but  he  had  it  not,  or  would  not  have  it.  Spent  4d. 
with  him."  Shrewd  chap  that  parson!  Had  his  share  of 
the  four-pennyworth  of  ale,  but  did  not  see  his  way  to 
"  parting  " ! 

The  squire,  however,  had  better  luck  in  another  quarter, 
as  the  following  curious  entry  shows  : — "  December  7th. 
Sunday.  To  church,  parson  preached.  To  Downham. 
Met  P.  ;  borrowed  ;i^30  of  him  and  made  bargain  with  him 
to  have  ^100,  and  pay  him  i^io  a  year  for  10  years,  and  if 
his  two  children  die  within  that  time  go  away  with  the 
;^ioo."  A  good  stroke  of  business  that !  The  better  the 
day  the  better  the  deed  ! 

Keen  sportsman  and  good  man  of  business  as  he  was, 


AN   OLD    SQUIRE'S    DIARY         365 

Squire  Assheton  was  sufficiently  simple  in  some  matters 
to  be  taken  in  by  the  "sharps"  of  the  period.  Here 
is  a  story  which  he  tells  against  himself: — "June  23rd. 
Downham.  There  came  one  to  us  in  the  street  and  asked 
if  we  heare  nothing  of  a  bay  gelding  stolen  from  Mr  Holte's, 
Castleton,  by  the  miller  there,  and  one  silver  bowle,  and  eigh- 
teen silver  spoones.  I  took  him  to  the  ale-house  and  spent 
12  pence  on  him.  I  lent  him  two  shillings,  Hee  was  a 
cheaie."  How  the  Squire  discovered  that  the  person  whom 
he  treated  at  the  ale-house  was  a  "  cheate,"  or  in  what  his 
cheating  consisted,  we  are  not  told,  which  is  tantalising. 

There  are  several  allusions  to  horse-racing,  of  which  the 
Squire  was  evidently  fond  ;  but  they  are  provokingly  vague, 
though  this  is  not  always  the  diarist's  fault.  I  will  give 
one  or  two  specimens : — "  January  26th.  Self,  John 
Braddyll,  cousin  Assheton,  with  others,  went  to  Walton 
to  see  Sir  Richard's  horses  that  stood  there."  Here,  in 
the  original  manuscript,  follows  a  long  account  of  a  horse- 
race which  the  first  editor  of  the  journal,  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Dunham  Whitaker  (who  introduced  the  diary  into  his 
history  of  the  Parish  of  Whalley)  did  not  think  worth 
reproducing.  The  second  editor,  the  Rev.  F.  R.  Raines, 
was  of  a  different  opinion,  but  unfortunately  the  MS.  had 
been  mislaid  or  destroyed  ;  at  any  rate,  it  was  not  to  be 
found  amongst  Dr  Whitaker's  papers,  and  thus  what  would 
have  probably  been  the  earliest  detailed  account  of  a  horse- 
race has  been  irretrievably  lost. 

Another  entry  respecting  horse-racing  is  as  follows : — 
"  Sir  Richard  and  Mr  Assheton  made  a  match,  his  dunn 
gelding  against  a  dunn  nag  of  Sir  Richard,  for  twenty 
pieces  a  side.  Sir  Richard  and  my  cousin  to  ride  as  light 
as  they  can,  so  as  Sir  Richard  be  10  st."  This  I  take  to 
have  been  a  match,  owners  up,  Sir  Richard  to  scale  not  less 
that  10  St.,  Mr  Assheton  to  ride  at  catch-weight.  Such 
matches  were  a  common  form  of  amusement  among  the 
country  gentry,  and  large  sums  were  wagered  in  addition 
to  the  stakes. 

I  have  noted  how  careful  Squire  Assheton  was  to  observe 
Sunday  ;  but  the  temptation  of  a  horse-race  appears  some- 
times  to  have   been  too  much    for  him,  and   the   parson 


366  SPORTING    STORIES 

looked  in  vain  for  the  Squire  of  Downham  in  his  pew  on 
one  Sabbath  at  any  rate.  For  an  entry  in  the  diary  runs 
thus: — "  July  19th.  Sunday.  With  Sherburne,  Starkie,  etc., 
to  Clitheroe  :  stayed  drinking  some  wyne  :  soe  to  a  summer 
game :  Sherburne's  mare  run  and  lost  the  bell :  made 
merrie:  stayed  until  2  o'clock."  The  silver  bell,  by  the 
way,  was  the  usual  prize  at  the  County  Races.  From 
which  it  may  be  inferred  that  Sunday  racing  was  not 
deemed  an  indecorous  pastime  by  the  country  gentlemen 
of  that  date. 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  two  years  our  Squire  visited 
London  on  law  business  ;  and  a  journey  to  the  capital  was 
a  rare  and  perilous  adventure  in  those  days.  He  carefully 
notes  the  names  of  the  inns  at  which  he  put  up,  such  as 
the  "Cock"  at  Stony  Stratford  (still  in  existence),  the 
"  Antelope  "  at  Barnet,  the  "  White  Horse  "  at  Dunstable, 
and  the  "  Bell "  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane.  He  tells  how  he 
"  shott  at  thrushes  "  between  Mimms  and  Barnet,  and  gives 
the  number  of  miles  he  rode  every  day,  varying  from 
twenty-five  to  thirty-five.  But  of  his  adventures  in  the 
great  metropolis  he  makes  no  mention.  Perhaps  they 
were  not  of  a  nature  to  recall  agreeable  memories. 

I  picture  this  Master  Nicholas  Assheton  as  a  sturdy, 
broad-shouldered,  ruddy-faced  Englishman,  whose  days 
were  passed  in  sport,  and  his  nights  in  tippling,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  country  gentry  of  his  time.  A  staunch 
supporter  of  Church  and  State,  who  with  all  his  convivial 
habits  and  love  of  sport  found  time  to  discharge  creditably 
his  duties  as  a  landlord  and  a  magistrate.  I  think  I  could 
lay  my  hand  even  now  upon  one  or  two  country  gentlemen 
who  are  of  pretty  much  the  same  type. 

A  fitting  companion  picture  to  the  diary  of  Nicholas 
Assheton  is  "  The  Notebook  of  a  Cavalier,"  containing  the 
random  jottings  of  William  Blundell  of  Little  Crosby,  about 
six  miles  from  Liverpool. 

The  Blundells  were  an  old  county  family  who  had  held 
the  manor  of  Little  Crosby  for  four  hundred  years  without  a 
break.  William,  the  author  of  the  "  Notebook,"  was  a  speci- 
men of  the  best  type  of  English  country  gentlemen,  of  a 
superior  stamp  to  Squire  Assheton.     I  should  judge  him  to 


A   CAVALIER'S   NOTEBOOK        367 

have  been  in  his  youth  the  very  beau-ideal  of  a  dashing 
cavalier.  Writing  in  later  years  to  Lady  Haggerston  of 
Haggerston  in  Northumberland,  whose  daughter  he  had 
wedded,  he  thus  playfully  pictures  himself  when  he  came  as 
a  suitor  to  the  house  of  his  future  father-in-law.  "  You  will 
remember  what  a  pretty  straight  young  thing  all  dashing 
in  scarlet  I  came  to  Haggerston."  In  the  Civil  War  he 
joined  the  Earl  of  Derby's  regiment  of  Dragoons  ;  but  his 
career  as  a  soldier  was  soon  brought  to  a  close.  He  was 
one  of  the  heroic  band  who  stormed  the  Castle  of  Lancaster 
on  the  1 8th  of  March  1642.  But  in  the  assault  his  thigh 
was  broken  by  a  shot,  and  he  was  a  cripple  for  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

Up  to  this  time  William  Blundell  had  been  a  gay  young 
spark,  and  went  the  pace  with  a  vengeance,  scattering  his 
money  right  and  left,  and  ruffling  it  with  the  fastest  of  his 
contemporaries  on  the  race-course,  at  the  card-table,  and  in 
the  hunting-field ;  and,  to  judge  from  his  description,  the 
cavalier  squires  of  Lancaster  must  have  been  a  "  very  warm 
lot "  indeed.  The  way  they  drank  fairly  takes  one's  breath 
away.  Here  is  a  record  of  a  drinking-bout  which  shows  how 
the  good  old  English  gentleman  could  put  away  his  liquor  : 
"  Sir  William  Stanley  told  me  that  at  Hooton   my  Lord 

M ,  the  three  T.'s,  and  some  few  more  in  three  or  four 

nights  consumed  sixteen  dozen  bottles  of  wine,  two  hogs- 
heads of  beer,  and  two  barrels  of  ale." 

And  yet,  with  all  their  drinking  habits,  these  Englishmen 
were  hardy,  athletic,  and  active,  capable  of  great  feats  of 
endurance  and  speed.  As  a  specimen  of  the  arduous  sport 
in  which  the  nobles  of  that  day  indulged,  our  "  Cavalier  " 
gives  the  following  : — 

On  a  Thursday  in  August  1664,  "  the  Earls  of  Castlehaven 
and  Arran  (whereof  the  first  was  about  fifty  years  of  age), 
in  St  James's  Park,  upon  a  wager  laid  with  the  King,  killed 
a  fat,  strong  buck  by  running  on  foot,  having  each  a  knife 
in  his  hand.  They  had  six  hours  to  perform  it,  but  they 
did  it  in  two  and  a  half.  They  were  a  good  while  before 
they  could  unherd  him,  then  they  run  him  till,  being 
extremely  hot,  he  took  the  water  in  the  pond,  where  they 
threw  stones  at  him,  and  toiled,  and  drove  him  so  to  the 


368  SPORTING    STORIES 

side  till  they  killed  him  with  their  knives.  This  was  told 
me  by  a  gentleman  present  when  the  buck  was  killed,  and 
the  thing  is  very  true." 

Is  there  any  English  nobleman  or  gentleman  of  fifty 
years  of  age  in  the  present  day  who  would  undertake  to 
perform  such  a  feat  as  that  ? 

William  Blundell,  after  he  was  crippled  by  his  wound, 
took  life  much  more  seriously  than  he  did  in  his  earlier 
days.  He  settled  down  into  a  sober,  decorous  country 
o-entleman  ;  but  his  love  of  sport  remained,  and  he  evidently 
did  not  consider  an  interest  in  horse-racing  inconsistent 
with  the  character  of  a  respectable  member  of  society. 

There  was  an  excellent  race-course  at  Little  Crosby, 
which  William  Blundell  himself  had  laid  out,  and  the 
principal  county  meetings  were  held  there.  There  are 
frequent  references  in  the  "  Notebook  "  to  this  race-course, 
which  was  403  rods  4  yards  in  length,  or,  in  other  words, 
I  mile  460  yards.  Twice  round  the  course  was  the 
shortest  distance  for  any  race,  four  times  round  for  the 
big  races. 

The  following  "  Articles  for  Races  at  Crosby,  to  be  run 
on  first  Monday  in  August  1682,  and  yearly  afterwards," 
were  drawn  up  by  W.B.  at  the  request  of  the  Hon.  W. 
Molyneux.  After  providing  that  a  piece  or  pieces  of  silver 
plate  be  the  prize  for  the  winner,  come  the  following  rules 
which  I  select  from  the  rest  as  most  noteworthy : — 

"  2.  Horse  to  be  brought  to  the  ground  ten  days  before 
the  race,  aired  and  trained  there,  housed  and  fed  within 
a  mile  of  the  course.  Name  of  horse  and  person  who 
intends  to  put  him  in  to  be  given,  two  days  before  the 
horse  comes  to  the  ground,  to  a  qualified  person  or 
subscriber  of  20s. 

3.  Every  person  bringing  a  horse  to  deposit  40s. 
as  a  stake  eight  days  before  the  race,  which  stake  or 
stakes  either  to  be  given  to  the  second  horse  or  held  for 
another  race  next  year,  as  the  subscribers  may  judge. 
40s.  subscribers  to  the  plate  exempted.  No  subscribers  to 
bring  more  than  one  horse. 

4.  Horses  to  be  drawn  out  on  the  race  day  at  2  p.m., 
and  weigh  with  rider  and  accoutrements  10  st. 


A   CAVALIER'S    NOTEBOOK        369 

6.  That  the  horse  which  shall  first  end  the  first  course 
or  heat  by  returning  back  to  the  starting-post,  and  by 
carrying  his  rider  thither  with  his  full  weight,  or  within  a 
pound  thereof,  before  any  horse  has  come  back  to  the 
distance-post  which  stands  upon  the  same  ground  about 
twelve  score  yards  from  the  end,  shall  win  the  plate.  But 
if  no  such  thing  happen,  a  second  heat  to  be  run  at  the 
end  of  half  an  hour  with  horses  not  distanced.  Again, 
after  another  half-hour,  a  third  heat  if  necessary. 

7.  In  case  the  plate  be  not  gained  in  three  heats,  the 
horse  coming  in  first  in  two,  and  within  the  distance  in  the 
one  he  loses,  shall  have  the  plate.  If  two  different  horses 
win  the  first  and  second,  the  winner  of  the  third  shall 
take  it. 

8.  Riders  not  submitting  to  the  rules  to  be  excluded 
from  running.  A  cloth  or  flag  to  be  placed  at  the  top  of 
the  ending  post,  which  shall  fall  immediately  the  first  horse 
comes  to  the  end. 

9.  If  only  one  horse  comes,  he  must  take  the  plate  after 
galloping  over  the  course.  Riders  and  horses  to  be 
weighed  afresh  after  each  heat,  and  before  he  enters  the 
scales  a  flagon  of  beer  to  be  given  to  each  rider  if  he 
requires  it." 

The  most  noteworthy  feature  of  these  rules  is  the  immense 
amount  of  superiority  over  all  rivals  which  they  exact  from 
the  winner.  He  must  come  in  with  a  lead  of  twelvescore 
yards  ;  in  all  cases  he  must  "  distance  "  his  nearest  opponent 
to  enable  him  to  win  the  plate.  If  he  could  do  that,  the 
prize  went  to  him  at  once.  If  he  failed  to  distance  the 
second  horse,  or  if  he  were  anything  less  than  240  yds.  in 
front,  there  must  be  another  heat  run.  If  the  horse  won 
both  first  and  second  heats,  no  matter  by  what  distance, 
he  took  the  plate ;  or  if  he  won  the  first  and  third  heats, 
and  was  outdistanced  in  the  second,  he  secured  the  prize. 
Considering  the  length  of  the  course,  what  a  terrible 
bucketing  it  must  have  been  to  any  horse  to  be  sent  over  it 
three  times  in  the  space  of  an  hour  and  a  half  with  10  st. 
on  his  back  !  How  those  old  Turfites  would  have  scorned 
the  notion  of  winning  by  a  short  head  !  and  how  measure- 
less would  have  been  their  contempt  for  the  weedy,  spindle- 

24 


370  SPORTING   STORIES 

shanked  two-year-old  flyer  of  to-day !  They  must  have 
had  rare  stoutness  and  staying  power,  those  "  running 
horses  "  of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  will  be  noted  that 
no  mention  is  made  of  the  refreshment  to  be  allowed  to 
horses  between  each  heat.  Perhaps,  like  their  jockeys, 
they  too  were  treated  to  a  "  flagon  of  beer,"  for  assuredly 
they  needed  a  stimulant  more  than  their  riders. 

These  rules  drawn  up  for  the  races  at  Little  Crosby  may 
be  taken,  I  imagine,  as  a  specimen  of  the  regulations 
generally  in  vogue  at  race-meetings  all  over  the  country  at 
that  time. 


CHAPTER  L 

REMARKABLE  RACING  DREAMS 

Of  all  forms  of  superstition  by  which  sportsmen  of  the 
gambling  sort  are  affected,  the  most  prevalent  is  the  belief 
in  dreams  as  prophetic  of  future  events ;  and  it  must  be 
admitted  that  there  is  some  ground  for  such  belief,  for  in 
many  cases  wonderful  tips  have  come  from  dreamland.  I 
have  collected  a  few  of  these  as  samples,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  most  readers  could  add  to  the  list. 

About  a  month  before  the  Derby  of  1873  Mrs  Peters, 
the  wife  of  the  steward  at  a  certain  London  club  where  a 
large  Derby  sweepstakes  was  made  up  every  year,  dreamed 
that  one  of  the  members  had  sold  his  chance  to  her 
husband,  and  that  the  horse  won  the  race.  At  breakfast 
next  morning  she  told  him  her  dream.  The  steward,  who 
was  very  sceptical  about  such  things,  laughed  at  her,  but 
asked  the  name  of  the  horse. 

"  Doncaster,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  saw  it  as  plainly  as  I 
see  this  cup  and  saucer,  and  the  whole  thing  was  so  vivid 
that  I  am  sure  there's  something  in  it." 

"  Pooh  !  pooh !  old  girl ;  Doncaster  hasn't  a  chance," 
replied  her  worser  half.  "  I've  backed  the  winner,  and  his 
name's  Kaiser,  and  you  shall  have  a  new  bonnet  out  of  the 
stakes." 

The  lady  shook  her  head  and  stuck  to  her  text,  though 
she  knew  it  was  no  use  arguing.  A  few  days  before  the 
great  event  came  off  one  of  the  members  of  the  club  said 
to  the  steward  : — 

"  I  say,  Peters,  I  sail  on  Monday  for  the  East,  and  I 
want  to  get  rid  of  this  ticket.  Everybody  says  the  horse 
has  no  chance,  and  if  you  can  get  someone  to  give  me  a 
guinea  for  it,  let  me  know." 

371 


372  SPORTING    STORIES 

Peters  looked  at  the  name  on  the  ticket  and  read 
"  Doncaster,"  Now  whether  he  thought  of  his  wife's 
dream,  and  the  peculiar  coincidence  influenced  him,  or 
whether  it  was  done  in  a  spirit  of  pure  speculation,  it 
would  be  useless  to  inquire ;  but  his  reply  was,  "  All  right, 
sir,  there's  the  guinea,  and  if  nobody  will  have  it  I'll  keep 
it ;  not  but  what  I  feel  sure  that  Kaiser  will  win." 

The  ticket  was  at  once  transferred  to  him,  and  he 
actually  offered  it  to  several  gentlemen,  who  promptly 
refused  it.  When  the  great  day  arrived,  and  James 
Merry's  horse  was  declared  the  winner,  to  the  great 
astonishment  and  consternation  of  a  good  many  people, 
Mr  Peters  had  the  satisfaction  of  pocketing  150  sovereigns. 

There  seems  to  have  been  something  very  peculiar  and 
ominous  about  this  horse  Doncaster,  for  Mrs  Peters  was 
not  the  only  person  whose  slumbers  he  invaded.  On  the 
Sunday  morning  previous  to  the  Derby  the  wife  of  a 
costermonger — Timson  by  name — woke  the  partner  of  her 
bed  by  singing  out  lustily,  "  The  boy  in  yaller  wins  the 
day."  Ned  Timson,  who  had  been  bawling  mackerel  all 
the  previous  day  and  had  been  taking  the  hoarseness  out 
of  his  throat  the  previous  night  with  sundry  pots  of  four 
ale,  wild  at  being  aroused  out  of  his  refreshing  slumbers, 
gave  her  a  thump,  and  told  her  to  shut  up.  When  they 
were  both  awake  he  asked  her  what  she  meant  by  kicking 
up  that  row.  Then  she  told  him  that  she  had  dreamed 
she  was  on  Epsom  Downs,  and  had  seen  a  jockey  in 
yellow  pass  all  the  other  horses,  and  everybody  shouted 
"  The  boy  in  yaller  wins  the  day  ! " 

"  That,  you  know,  Ned,  was  a  song  my  mother  used  to 
sing  when  she  was  a  girl.  If  there's  a  jockey  in  yaller  I'd 
put  a  bit  on  him,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Shut  up  your  silly  mug,"  growled  Ned,  who  put  as 
little  confidence  in  dreams  as  did  our  friend  the  steward. 

But  these  sceptical  gentlemen  are  sometimes  not  quite 
so  sceptical  as  they  would  fain  make  believe;  and  when  Mr 
Edward  Timson,  who  was  a  bit  of  a  sporting  man  in  his 
way,  saw  the  horses  taking  their  preliminary  canter,  and 
one  of  the  jockeys  dressed  in  yellow — James  Merry's 
colours — he  clapped  all  the  money  he  had  in  his  pocket — 


REMARKABLE   RACING    DREAMS    373 

thirty  shillings — upon  "  the  boy  in  yellow,"  and  pocketed 
sixty  yellow  boys  for  his  pluck.  It  was  the  making  of 
him ;  he  bought  a  new  horse  and  cart,  and  christened  the 
former  "  Yellow  Boy,"  while  Sal,  you  may  be  sure,  did  not 
forget  to  exult  about  her  dream. 

My  next  Doncastrian  anecdote  is  not  exactly  a  dream 
story,  though  its  hero  was  a  sleeping  man  ;  it  belongs  rather 
to  that  class  of  superstition  which  the  Romans  included 
under  divination — the  foreshadowing  of  coming  events  by 
some  chance  incident  or  stray  word.  A  sporting  man  of  my 
acquaintance  was  travelling  into  Scotland  by  the  "  Flying 
Scotchman,"  and,  having  fallen  asleep,  was  awakened  by 
the  guard  shouting,  "Doncaster  ! — Doncaster!" 

"  Eh,  by  Jove ! "  he  cried,  starting  up  and  rubbing  his 
eyes ;  "  you  don't  say  so ;  has  Merry's  horse,  then,  really 
won  ?  " 

The  guard  was  so  struck  by  the  words  that  he  related 
them  to  several  people.  "  I  should  take  it  as  a  tip,"  sug- 
gested one.  He  caught  at  the  idea,  put  half  a  sovereign 
on  the  horse,  and  made  twenty. 

But  not  even  yet  have  I  finished  with  this  wonderful 
Doncaster  and  his  lucky  omens.  A  commercial  traveller 
named  Ramsden,  nephew  of  a  well-known  trainer,  though 
he  had  a  great  taste  for  racing,  never  staked  a  farthing 
upon  any  other  event  than  the  Derby,  but  regularly  put  his 
fiver  upon  his  fancy  for  the  Blue  Riband.  It  so  happened, 
however,  in  the  contrariety  of  things  in  general,  that  he 
was  never  able  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Downs  on  the  great 
day,  as  his  Dublin  journey  was  always  due  that  week.  His 
manner  of  selecting  his  horse  was  singularly  original :  he 
never  took  a  tip,  never  allowed  his  judgment  to  be 
influenced,  as  far  as  putting  on  his  money  went,  by  any 
sporting  "  organ  "  ;  he  appealed  purely  and  simply  to  blind 
chance,  in  this  manner :  he  wrote  out  the  names  of  all  the 
horses  that  ran,  each  upon  a  separate  slip  of  paper,  rolled 
each  up  into  a  little  pellet,  then,  taking  the  lot  up  in  his 
hand,  cast  them  with  as  much  force  as  he  was  able  against 
the  wall  of  his  room,  and  backed  the  horse  that  rebounded 
farthest.  Though  the  experiment  had  not  been  successful 
on  the  whole,  it  was  eminently  so  for  the  Derby  of  1873, 


374  SPORTING    STORIES 

for  the  pellet  he  picked  up  had  "  Doncaster "  inscribed 
upon  it. 

Another  famous  dream  horse  was  Blue  Gown.  The 
following  story  was  related  to  me  by  a  sporting  writer  as  a 
personal  experience : — "  After  that  famous  Derby  was  run, 
I  went  off  to  finish  the  night  at  Cremorne.  I  had  scarcely 
passed  through  the  gates  when  I  met  a  pal,  in  the 
commercial  line,  in  very  high  spirits,  who  asked  me  to 
come  and  have  a  drink.  "  I  have  just  landed  a  thou  over 
Blue  Gown,"  he  said,  "  and  it's  the  queerest  start  you  ever 
heard.  I  fancied  Rosicrucian,  and  had  a  bit  on  him,  when 
I  dreamt  the  funniest  dream.  You  know  I'm  in  the 
hosiery  line.  Well,  I  was  down  at  Manchester  a  few 
weeks  back,  and  one  night  I  dreamt  a  lady  came  to  me 
and  said :  '  Mind,  I  shall  require  a  blue  gown  to  match 
with  the  stockings  you  have  given  me.'  Well,  I  never 
take  any  notice  of  such  things,  and  certainly  I  never 
thought  of  connecting  it  with  Hawley's  horse  :  hang  me  if 
two  nights  afterwards  I  didn't  dream  precisely  the  same 
thing  over  again.  I  began  to  think  it  rather  singular ;  but 
still  the  coincidence  never  dawned  upon  me,  though  I 
actually  dreamed  it  a  third  time.  But  it  was  now  so  very 
extraordinary  that  I  mentioned  the  circumstance  to  a 
friend.  "  It's  a  tip  for  the  Derby,  as  sure  as  you're  alive," 
he  cried  at  once ;  "  lay  on  all  you  know,  and  I'll  go  in  with 
you."  Then  it  seemed  to  come  upon  me  all  at  once,  and  I 
could  not  understand  how  I  could  have  been  such  a  fool  as 
not  to  see  it  before.  I  didn't  lose  a  moment  in  putting  on 
Blue  Gown  every  farthing  I  could  scrape  up,  and  this," 
showing  a  role  of  bank-notes,  "  is  the  result." 

About  the  same  time  a  man  named  Lowry,  who  had 
been  a  tout  to  Henry  Padwick,  was  lying  dangerously  ill, 
bis  life  being  despaired  of. 

"  Look  here,  my  girl,"  he  said  to  his  wife  one  morning ; 
"get  together  all  the  money  you  can  and  put  it  on  Blue 
Gown,  for  that's  the  Derby  winner  for  this  year.  I 
mightn't  live  to  see  it,  but  it's  a  dead  certainty,  as  sure  as 
you  are  here." 

"  La,  Jim,  what  makes  you  think  that  ? "  inquired  the 
wife. 


REMARKABLE   RACING   DREAMS    375 

"  Because  it's  come  to  me  in  my  sleep,"  he  answered. 

She  had  the  courage  to  follow  his  advice,  and,  though  he 
was  under  the  turf  before  the  event  came  off,  she  made  a 
nice  little  sum  to  console  her  widowhood  and  give  her  a 
good  chance  for  another  husband. 

The  triple  dream  I  have  just  mentioned  had  a  parallel 
some  years  previously.  A  man  named  Coakley,  a  chemist 
and  druggist  at  Stockbridge,  one  night  in  the  spring  of 
1846  dreamed  that  he  saw  Pyrrus  the  First  win  the  Derby. 
He  was  not  a  betting  man,  so  he  could  not  understand 
what  had  put  the  horse  into  his  head  ;  he  was  still  more 
puzzled  when  he  dreamed  the  same  thing  the  following 
night ;  he  was  yet  more  astounded  when  it  returned  on  the 
third.  Being  acquainted  with  John  Day,  who,  as  every- 
body knows,  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  he  told  him  about 
this  curious  vision  of  the  night,  "  I  should  back  him,"  was 
the  worthy  trainer's  advice ;  the  chemist  very  wisely  took 
it,  and  made  more  by  that  tip  in  a  day  than  he  could  have 
done  by  pills  in  a  year. 

For  my  next  anecdote  I  must  go  as  far  back  as  1839. 
A  provincial  actor  named  Freeman,  very  well  known  in  his 
time,  while  performing  in  some  country  town  had  his 
benefit  fixed  for  the  Derby  night.  In  those  days  of  small 
salaries  the  benefit  was  the  actor's  main  dependence  to 
clear  off  debts,  stock  him  with  clothes,  and  prepare  him 
for  his  next  engagement,  and  the  choice  of  a  piece  likely 
to  prove  the  most  attractive  was  a  matter  requiring  the 
most  careful  attention,  and  a  source  of  much  anxiety. 
Mr  Freeman,  on  the  present  occasion,  found  the  task  so 
difficult,  and  was  so  worried  by  conflicting  ideas,  that  he 
was  almost  ill.  One  night  his  wife  awoke  him  with,  "Jim, 
did  you  hear  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  what  ?  " 

"  I  heard  a  voice  say,  quite  distinctly,  that  if  you  put  up 
the  Flying  Dutchman  for  your  benefit  you'll  have  the 
biggest  house  of  the  season." 

"  Good  Lord  ! "  cried  Freeman,  "  I  never  thought  of  that 
piece ;  and  that  is  the  name  of  the  Derby  favourite.  A 
splendid  idea  !  I'll  do  it ;  if  the  horse  were  to  win  it  would 
fill  the  house." 


376  SPORTING    STORIES 

He  lost  no  time  in  issuing  the  bills.  Those  in  the  town 
who  had  betted  on  the  horse,  thinking  it  a  lucky  tip,  took 
tickets,  and  when  the  news  came  that  Flying  Dutchman 
had  won  the  Blue  Riband,  numbers  of  people,  struck  by  the 
coincidence,  flocked  to  the  theatre,  filling  it  from  floor  to 
ceiling,  and  making  it  indeed,  as  the  mysterious  voice  had 
prognosticated,  the  biggest  house  of  the  season. 

This  disposition  on  the  part  of  sporting  men  to  accept 
such  omens  has  before  now  been  taken  advantage  of  by 
impostors,  and  more  than  once  advertisements  have  ap- 
peared in  the  sporting  papers  announcing  that  a  lady  who 
had  twice  dreamed  the  name  of  the  Derby  winner  had 
again  been  so  favoured,  and  was  prepared  to  send  this  tip 
from  Queen  Mab  on  the  receipt  of  thirty  postage  stamps. 
It  is  said  that  she  reaped  a  goodly  harvest,  though  it  was 
more  than  the  senders  of  the  half-crowns  did.  Spiritualists 
have  also  tried  the  dodge,  and  mediums  have  seen  horses 
gallop  past  the  winning-post  that  never  came  within  half 
a  mile  of  it. 

To  come  again  to  the  experience  of  persons  still  living, 
here  is  a  curious  instance  of  a  lucky  dream.  The  night 
before  the  race  for  the  Chester  Cup  of  1856,  Mr  William 
Day,  the  trainer,  dreamt  that  One  Act  won,  and  that 
William  Goater  was  second  after  a  good  race,  and  that  he 
told  Goater  after  the  horses  had  passed  the  post  that 
he  thought  he  (Day)  had  won.  To  this  Goater  hastily 
replied,  "You  know  you  have";  and,  walking  up  the 
course  together,  the  Findon  trainer  added,  "  You  have 
done  me  out  of  the  best  stake  I  ever  stood." 

This  dream  William  Day  told  to  some  ten  or  a  dozen 
gentlemen  during  breakfast  at  the  hotel  at  Chester  where 
he  was  staying.  After  saddling  One  Act,  William  Day 
stood  close  to  the  winning-post  to  see  the  race,  and  as 
soon  as  his  mare  had  passed  it  the  third  time  he  thought 
she  had  won.  He  said  to  the  judge,  "  What  has  won, 
Mr  Johnstone?"  "White,"  he  replied;  and  then,  looking 
up,  he  added,  "  Oh,f  ou,  Mr  Day  !  "  Strange  to  say,  William 
Goater  was  standing  by  Day's  side  all  the  time,  quite 
unnoticed  by  the  latter,  until,  turning  round  to  go  and 
meet  One  Act,  Day   found  himself  face  to  face  with  his 


REMARKABLE   RACING   DREAMS    377 

Findon  rival.  As  they  walked  up  to  meet  their  respective 
horses,  Goater  said, "  I  stood  to  win  more  money  on  mine 
to-day  than  I  ever  stood  before,"  thus  fulfilling  Mr  Day's 
dream  to  the  very  letter. 

The  famous  mare  Caller  Ou,  winner  of  the  St  Leger  of 
1 86 1,  was  the  heroine  of  an  equally  vivid  and  prophetic 
dream.  Caller  Ou  had  been  performing  very  moderately 
during  the  summer  of  her  three-year-old  career,  and  the 
odds  of  lOO  to  I  offered  against  her  seemed  to  foreshadow 
her  absence  from  the  post.  A  gentleman  with  whom  Mr 
I'Anson  was  slightly  acquainted — a  keen  sportsman  and 
courser — Mr  Peat,  dreamed  that  Caller  Ou  won  the  St  Leger, 
and  like  a  true  Yorkshireman  backed  her  for  that  event. 
On  being  told  by  his  friends  that  she  was  not  likely  to  run, 
he  wrote  very  respectfully  to  Mr  I'Anson,  informing  him  of 
his  dream  and  of  his  having  backed  the  mare,  and  offered, 
in  case  the  owner  did  not  think  of  running  her,  to  pay  the 
stake  and  all  other  expenses  if  he  would  allow  her  to  go  to 
Doncaster  and  take  her  chance.  Mr  I'Anson,  on  considering 
the  matter,  desired  his  daughter,  who  was  then,  as  always, 
his  trusty  counsellor  and  amanuensis,  to  reply  in  courteous 
terms  to  Mr  Peat's  letter,  thanking  him  for  his  handsome 
offer,  and  informing  him  that  Caller  Ou  should  run  and 
take  her  chance  in  the  St  Leger,  but  that  he  would  himself 
pay  all  expenses.  The  result,  as  is  well  known,  gained 
Caller  Ou  the  brightest  gem  in  her  chaplet  of  fame,  and 
won  Mr  Peat  his  money. 

Mr  Alexander  Young,  the  brewer,  of  Richmond,  York- 
shire, dreamt  on  the  eve  of  the  Chester  Cup  that  he  was 
standing  in  the  ring  after  the  race  and  saw  No.  21  hoisted 
as  the  winning  number.  This  dream  induced  him  to  go  to 
Chester  Races,  and  on  the  course  he  met  his  friend  Mr  John 
Jackson,  the  then  leviathan  of  the  betting  ring,  who  inquired 
what  had  brought  him  there.  Mr  Young  laughingly 
replied  that  he  had  come  on  a  fool's  errand  to  back 
No.  21  on  the  card,  as  he  had  dreamt  it  had  won.  The 
race  cards  were  just  coming  out,  and  Jackson  said, 
"  We'll  buy  one,  and  see  what  it  is."  To  their  surprise, 
they  found  that  No.  21  was  Jackson's  own  horse,  Tim 
Whiffler ;  and  on  being  assured  by  the  owner  that  the  horse 


378  SPORTING   STORIES 

really  had  a  great  chance,  Mr  Young  backed  him  to  win 
a  good  stake,  and  always  declared  that  he  stood  on  the 
course  in  exactly  the  same  place  as  he  did  in  his  dream. 
Mr  Young  (who  was  the  breeder  of  Digby  Grand,  Grand 
Flaneur,  and  at  one  time  owned  Controversy)  told  several 
people  at  Richmond  of  his  dream  before  he  went  to  Chester. 

I  have  heard  it  stated  on  very  good  authority  that  the 
Hon.  Amias  Charles  Orde-Powlett,  younger  brother  of  the 
late  Lord  Bolton,  some  time  before  Voltigeur  won  the 
Derby,  dreamt  that  the  first  three  horses  in  that  race  were : 
I.  Voltigeur ;  2.  Pitsford ;  3.  Clincher,  He  wrote  to  his 
brother,  the  Hon.  T.  Orde-Powlett,  to  that  effect,  and  both 
gentlemen  backed  the  lucky  dream,  the  horses,  as  everybody 
knows,  finishing  as  above  placed.  The  mother  of  these 
two  gentlemen  was  also  celebrated  as  a  lucky  dreamer  : 
she  twice  dreamt  the  winner  of  the  St  Leger,  her  husband 
on  each  occasion  backing  the  dream  and  landing  good 
stakes. 

Lord  Vivian's  famous  City  and  Suburban  dream  is 
probably  known  to  most  Turfmen.  Still,  it  may  be  new 
to  some,  and  therefore  I  give  it  in  Lord  Vivian's  own 
words : — 

"  I  dreamed  on  the  morning  of  the  race  for  the  City 
and  Suburban  in  1874,  that  I  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
weighing-room  at  Epsom  prior  to  the  race,  and  that  after 
it  had  been  run  I  was  awakened  by  a  gentleman,  the 
owner  of  another  horse  in  the  race,  who  informed  me 
that  The  Teacher  had  won.  Of  this  horse,  as  far  as  my 
recollection  serves  me,  I  had  never  heard  before.  On 
reaching  Victoria  Station  the  first  person  I  saw  was  the 
gentleman  who  had  appeared  to  me  in  my  dream,  and  to 
whom  I  mentioned  it,  saying  I  could  not  find  any  horse 
so  named  in  the  race,  to  which  he  replied, '  There  is  a  horse, 
now  called  Aldrich,  which  was  previously  known  as  The 
Teacher.'  The  dream  had  so  vividly  impressed  me  that  I 
declared  my  intention  of  backing  Aldrich  for  ;^ioo,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  doing  so  when  I  was  questioned  by  the 
owner  as  to  why  I  was  backing  his  horse.  I  answered, 
'  Because  I  dreamt  he  had  won  the  race.'  To  this  I  was 
answered, '  As  against  your  dream  I  will  tell  you  a  fact.     I 


REMARKABLE   RACING   DREAMS    379 

tried  the  horse  last  week  against  a  hurdle-jumper,  and  he 
was  beaten  at  a  distance.'  I  thanked  my  informer,  and 
discontinued  backing  Aldrich.  General  Taylor,  who  had 
heard  what  had  passed,  asked  me,  if  I  did  not  intend 
backing  the  horse  again  for  myself,  to  win  him  i^iooo 
by  him.  This  I  did  by  taking  for  him  looo  to  30,  and 
Aldrich  won. 

Sir  George  Chetwynd,  by  the  way,  had  an  almost  equally 
remarkable  dream  with  respect  to  Curate  in  the  same  race 
(the  City  and  Suburban  of  1874).  He  dreamt  that  Curate 
came  in  first,  but  ran  up  a  bank  just  beyond  the  winning- 
post,  and,  disappearing,  never  returned  to  weigh  in  ;  conse- 
quently the  race  was  awarded  to  Mr  Lefevre's  Minister, 
who  came  in  second,  ridden  by  a  jockey  in  deep  mourning, 
crape  on  jacket  and  cap,  as  well  as  on  boots  and  breeches. 
Now  Curate  was  a  horse  that  had  been  heavily  backed  for 
the  City  and  Suburban,  but  was  scratched  just  before  the 
race,  and  Minister  did  come  in  second.  The  dream, 
grotesque  as  it  was,  left  so  vivid  an  impression  on  Sir 
George's  mind  that  he  backed  Minister  for  a  place,  and 
had  reason  to  be  well  satisfied  that  he  had  not  scorned 
his  queer  dream-tip. 

Colonel  Starkey,  the  owner  of  Sulphur,  was  another 
sportsman  who  was  indebted  to  a  dream  for  enabling 
him  to  hedge  at  the  last  moment.  When  the  Colonel 
ran  Sulphur  for  the  Lincolnshire  Handicap  he  was  very 
sanguine  up  to  a  certain  time  that  the  horse  would  win  ; 
but  on  the  Monday  prior  to  the  race  he  was  out  with  the 
Burton  Hounds,  and  rode  nearly  all  day  side  by  side  with 
Mr  Lawrence  Thornton,  mine  host  of  the  Saracen's  Head 
Hotel,  Lincoln,  when,  just  as  the  hounds  were  running 
into  their  fox,  and  each  man  was  putting  on  his  best 
"  spurt "  to  be  in  at  the  death,  Mr  Thornton  rushed  his 
old  hunter  past  the  horse  the  Colonel  was  riding,  and, 
turning  round,  said :  "  Ah,  that's  how  I  want  to  see 
Sulphur  rush  past  'em  in  the  Handicap  for  you."  Well, 
on  the  way  back  the  Colonel  seemed  gloomy.  He  said  : 
"  Thornton,  you  beat  me  to-day,  and  I  shall  be  beaten 
to-morrow.  I  dreamt,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "last  night 
that    Sulphur's    number    was    put   up   third,   and    that's 


380  SPORTING    STORIES 

where  he  will  be ;  so  1  advise  you  to  back  him  only 
for  a  place."  And,  sure  enough,  Sulphur  was  placed  third 
by  the  judge. 

There  can  be  no  question,  then,  that  dreams  do  some- 
times come  true,  and  that  there  have  been  lucky  sportsmen 
who  have  had  reason  to  bless  Queen  Mab  for  her  "  correct 
tips."  Yet  I  candidly  confess  that  I  regard  these  prophetic 
dreams  as  mere  freaks.  When  a  dream  is  fulfilled,  it  is 
remembered  as  a  phenomenon.  But  think  of  the  countless 
myriads  of  dreams  which  do  not  come  true,  and  are  conse- 
quently forgotten,  and  the  reflection  will  probably  lead  you 
to  the  conclusion  that  to  put  faith  in  dreams  is  to  lean  upon 
a  broken  reed. 


INDEX    OF    PERSONS 


Abercorn,  Duke  of,  260. 
Abingdon,  Lord,  :5,  37. 
Absolom,  C.  A.,  29S. 
Absolora,  Charles,  298. 
Aga,  Mahomet,  140. 
Aldersen,  Baron,  345. 
Alexander  the  Great,  320. 
Althorp,  Lord,  352. 
Alvanley,    Lord   Chief  Justice, 

198. 
Alverstone,  Lord,  349. 
Anderson,  Josh,  loi. 
Andrews,  335,  340. 
Angell,  B.  J.,  85. 
Anson,  Colonel,  27,  266. 
Anson,  General,  265. 
Apperley,   C.   J.    ("  Nimrod  "), 

57,  123,  272. 
Apperley,  Colonel,  322. 
Archer,  Fred,  63,  122. 
Arrian,  215. 

Assheton,  Nicholas,  362. 
Astley,  Sir  John,  21S. 
Aubray,  Sir  Thomas  Digby,  167. 
Ava,  Lord,  328. 

Bacon,  Mr,  133. 
Badger,  Mr,  21S. 
Baird,  Sir  David,  355. 
Balfour,  Mr,  318. 
Ball,  Mr,  216. 
Ball,  John,  309. 
Ballantine,  Serjeant,  117. 
Barker,  Thomas,  290. 
Barlow,  292. 
Barlow,  Captain,  154. 
"  Baron,  Dutch,"  331. 
Barrymore,    Richard,    Earl   of, 

10,  36. 
Bartley  Mr,  91. 
Batson,  Mr,  20. 
Bean,  William,  158. 
Beasley,  88. 

Beauclerk,  Lord  Frederic,  94. 
Beckford,  Peter,  170. 
Beckwith,  General,  229. 

Bedell  Beverly,  148. 

Beecher,    Captain,    85,   88,    95, 
105. 

Belcher,  Jem,  225. 

Belchers,  239. 

Bell,  Dr,  201. 

Bellyse,  Dr,  222. 

Bendall,  Mr  Samuel,  138. 

Bendigo,  240,  253. 

Bennet,  Mr,  43. 

Bennett,  Joe,  334. 

Bentinck,  Lord  George,  26,  35, 

SO- 
Benyon,  Ralph,  225. 
Benzon,  Ernest,  42. 
Beresford,  "  Bill,"  327. 
Berkeley,  Grantly,  245. 
Bethell,  Dick,  346. 
Bethune,  Colonel,  175. 


Beverly,  Bedell,  r4S. 
Birnie,  Mr,  339. 
Bishop,  Mr,  185. 
Blake,  Mr  Edmund,  79. 
Bland,  Jem,  18. 
Blenkiron,  51. 
Blundell,  William,  366. 
Blunt,  Wilfred  Scawen,  130. 
Bob,  White-headed,  332. 
Bogardus,  Captain,  1S7. 

Bonnor,  294. 

Borrow,  George,  248,  252. 

Bowes,  John,  297. 

Bowes,  Mr,  27,  30,  70. 

Boyce,  Charley,  iii. 

Boyd,  Dr,  317. 

Braid,  James,  315. 

Brain,  Big  Ben,  239. 

Brayley,  Mr,  42. 

Brett,  Thomas,  348. 

Britton,  Bob,  55. 

Britton,  Mr,  272. 

Brodrick,  Mr,  291. 

Broome,  Colonel  Arthur,  322. 

Broome,  Colonel  J.,  322. 

Broome,  Johnny,  85,  252. 

Broughton,  John,  231. 

Brown,  John,  of  Tring,  155. 

Brown,  Mr,  73. 

Brown,  Mr  J.  Moray,  328. 

Browning,  Mr  Harry,  145. 

Brummel,  Beau,  226. 

Brunton,  Michael,  343. 

Buccleuch,  the  Duke  of,  70,  304. 

Buckle,  Frank,  15,  39,  57,  123. 

Bucknill,     Sir    Thomas    Town- 
send,  348. 

Budd,    Edward   Hayward,  139, 
238,  267,  271,  297. 

Bullivant,  Mr,  81. 

Bunbury,  Sir  Charles,  187. 

Burke,  185. 

Burke,  Edmund,  36. 

Burlton,  155. 

Burn,  Jem,  243,  252. 

Burns,  Robbie,  272. 

Burton,  Captain  Richard,  262. 

Burton,  Mr,  85,  154. 

Burton,  Robert,  8,  284. 

Bute,  Marquis  of,  18S. 

Butler,  Frank,  27,  63,  m. 

Butler,  James,  327. 

Butler,  Rev.  William,  261. 

Butson,  "  Tim,"  327. 

Byron,  Lord,  234,  238. 

Caffyn,  292. 
Caine,  Hall,  252. 
Callaby,  149. 
Cameron,  Angus,  2S0. 
Campbell,  Alexander,  318. 
Campbell,    John,     of    Saddell, 

314.  3S4-,       , 
Campbell,  Lord,  345. 
Campbell,  Lord  Colin,  318. 


Campbell,  Major,  16. 
Campbell,  Mr,  213. 
Cannon,  Mornington,  71. 
Cannon,  Tom,  65,  69,  332. 
Cardigan,  Earl  of,  170. 
Carew,  43. 

Carew,  Sir  Walter,  169. 
Carey,  Sir  Robert,  303. 
Carlyle,  Rev.  Mr,  311. 
Carmichael,  Sir  John,  303. 
Carney,  Mr,  332. 
Caroline,  Queen,  11. 
Carpenter,  292. 
Carr,  331. 

Carter,  George,  124. 
Castlehaven  and  Arran,   Earls 

of,  367. 
Caunt,  Ben,  240. 
Cauty,  Bill,  loi. 
Cavendish,  Hon.  Mr,  186. 
Chandler,  180. 
Charitti^,  General,  87,  107. 
Charles  L,  308. 
Chesterfield,  Lord,  57,  102. 
Chetwynd,  Sir  George,  379. 
Chichester,  Sir  Arthur,  173. 
Chifiuey,    Samuel    (the    elder), 

15-  39.  127- 
Chiffney,  Samuel  (the  younger), 

56,  60. 
Chiffney,  William,  42. 
Chilcott,  185. 
Childers,  Mr,  126. 
Chisholm,  327. 
Choate,  Rufus,  248. 
Cholmondeley,  Countess,  215. 
Cholmondeleys,  224. 
Cholmondeley-Pennell,  Mr,  287. 
Christian,  Dick,  87,  128. 
Clarence,     Duke    of    (William 

IV.),  235- 
Clarke,  Mr,  35,  sr. 
Clarke,  William,  293. 
Clayton,  Dick,  327. 
Cleveland,  the  Duke  of,  15,  21, 

38. 
Cloves,  Jerry,  18. 
Clutterbuck,  16. 
Coakley,  375. 
Cockburn,  Lord  Chief  Justice, 

346. 
Coke,  Mrs,  215. 
Coleman,  Tommy,  99,  to6. 
Connaught,  Duke  of,  326. 
Cook,  William,  334. 
Cooper,  George,  240. 
Cooper,     the      Hon.      Francis 

Ashley,  247. 
Cotton,  Charles,  286. 
Cottons,  224. 

Coventry,  Captain,  86,  88. 
Coventry,  Lord,  177. 
Craddock,  Colonel,  60. 
Crawley,  Peter,  144,  243,  252. 
Cresswcll,  Sir  Cresswell,  343. 


382 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS 


Crewe,  Sir  G.,  286. 

Cribb,  Tom,  225,  239,  245,  254. 

Crockford,  William,  18,  21. 

Croker,  260. 

Cruickshank,  Mr,  311. 

Cumberland,    Earl   of   (George 

Clifford),  8. 
Cumberland,  Duke  of  (William 

Augustus),  II,  IS,  184,  231. 
Cunningham,  Mr,  181. 
Curlewis,  92. 

Dale,  Will,  124. 

Dalkeith,  Lord,  304. 

Daly,  199. 

Dalzell,  Mr,  355 

Damer,  Hon.  Mr,  16. 

Darby,  Jack,  97. 

Darcy,  Mr,  290. 

Darling,  Sara,  62. 

Davenant,  303. 

Davis,    "  Leviathan,"    21,    28, 

123- 
Davy,  Sir  Humphrey,  211. 
Dawson,  Matthew,  67,  70. 
Dawson,  Tom,  71,  246. 
Day,  Alfred,  63. 
Day,  John,  44,  90,  202,  344,  375. 
Day,  Mr,  of  Wymondham,  81. 
Day,  Sam,  46,  61. 
Day,  William,  376. 
Delamere,  Lord,  175. 
Delm6  Radcliffe,  171,  262. 
Denison,  Beckett,  119. 
Denton,  Canon,  257. 
Derby,  Edward  Stanley,  twelfth 

Earl  of,  15,  206,  222. 
Derby,  Lord,  50. 
Devonshire,  Duke  of,  151. 
Dickel,  181. 
Dillon,  Lord,  262. 
Dilly,  John,  75. 
Dilly,  Montgomery,  75. 
Dismore,  Dan,  243. 
Dockeray,  60. 
Dodsworth,  Roger,  10. 
Doe,  J._H.,  278. 
Doneraile,  Lord,  195. 
Dorchester,  Lord,  191. 
Dorset,  Duke  of,  124. 
Dougan,  Peter,  168. 
Douglas,  271. 
Dowling,  Frank,  243. 
Dowling,  Vincent,  243. 
Downe,  Lord,  119. 
Doyle,  Sir  Francis,  200. 
Draper,  Miss  Diana,  215. 
Draper,  Squire,  215. 
Ducie,  Lord,  81. 
Ducket,  Stewart,  327. 
Dufton,  Billy,  334. 
Duncombe,  M.  P.,  Hon.  D.,119. 
Duncombe,    Thomas   Slingsby, 

117. 
Dunns,  the,  316. 

Easterby,  Mr,  216. 
Edward  IIL,  215. 
"  Edwards,  Mr,"  88. 
Edwards,  Harry,  56. 
Egerton,  Henry,  Earl  of  Bridg- 
water, 163. 
Egertons,  224. 
Eglinton,  Lord,  356. 
Egremont,  Lord,  15. 
Elderton,  Matthias,  160. 
Eldon,  Lord,  345. 
Elfi  Bey,  140. 
Elmore,  Mr,  89,  94. 


Elwes,  John,  37,  73. 
Emmott,  Parson,   364. 
England,  Captain  Dick,  16. 
Erie,  Rev.  Christopher,  167. 
Exmouth,  Lord,  133. 
Eyre,  General,  190. 
Eyre,  Mr,  139. 

Fairfield,  21,  353. 

Falmouth,  Lord,  66. 

Farrell,  91. 

Farren,  Miss,  207. 

Fawcett,  Professor,  262,  337. 

"  Felix,  Mr,"  297. 

Fellowes,  Mr,  173. 

Fenwick,  Mr,  229. 

Ferguson,  Mr,  20. 

Ferguson,  Mr  S.  Mure,  316. 

Ferguson,  Sir  Rowland,  40. 

Ferguson,  Tom,  96. 

Firdusi,  320. 

Fitzwilliam,         Hon.        Henry 

Wentworth,  153. 
Flanigan,  Tim,  166. 
Flareit,  T. ,  151. 
Flatman,  Nat,  60. 
Fleming,  227. 
Foley,  Lord,  39. 
Foley,  Lord  Thomas,  15,  35. 
Foljambe,  George  Savile,  119. 
Ford,  F.  J.,  318. 
Ford,  Samuel  George,  loi. 
Fordham,  George,  16,  30,  69  123. 
Forester,  Cecil,  180. 
Fox,  Charles  James,  35. 
Eraser,  Bishop,  142. 
Freeman,  291. 
Freeman,  375. 
French,  Tom,  69. 
Frisby,  Mr,  81. 

Gage,  Lord,  171. 
Gale,  Norman,  305. 
Galloway,  Lord,  261. 
Game,  W.  H.,  294. 
Gargrave,  Sir  Richard,  9. 
Garrick,  311. 
George  IIL,  233,  245. 
Gibbon,  35. 
Giffen,  George,  293. 
Gifford,  C.  F. ,  286. 
Gilbert,  Colonel,  169. 
Gill,  John,  51. 
Gilliver,  Joe,  223. 
Gittens,  R.,  218. 
Gladstone,  Mr,  352. 
Goater,  James,  48,  57. 
Goater,  William,  376. 
Goodenough,  Mr,  190. 
Goodisson,  Dick,  61,  127. 
Gordon,  Jemmy,  148. 
Goslings,  16. 
Goss,  Joe,  348. 
Gough,  J.  P.,  309. 
Gourlay,  DouglaS,  310. 
Grace,  E.  M.,  299. 
Grace,  W.  G. ,  292,  298. 
Grafton,  Dukes  of,  15,  61,  352. 
Graham,  Sir  Bellingham,  225. 
Graham,  Sir  James  (of  Nether- 

by),  260. 
Granville,  Earl,  352. 
Green,  Mr,  185. 
Gregson,  239. 

Greville,  Charles,  29,  50,  266. 
Griffin,  Jonathan,  207. 
Grimshaw,  Harry,  334. 
Grimston,  Hon.  Robert,  250. 
Grisewood,  Mr,  137. 


Grosvenor,  General,  90. 
Grosvenor,  Lord,  15,  187. 
Grundy,  292 

Gully,  John,  18,  27,  31,  42,  239. 
Gunn,  William,  293,  296. 
Gye,  Frederic,  262. 

Hafiz,  321. 

Haggerston,  Lady,  367. 
Hall,  Mrs  S.  C,  166. 
Hamilton,  Duke  of,  229. 
Hanger,  Colonel  George,  37. 
Hannay,  James,  117. 
Hansum,  79. 

Harcourt,  Sir  William,  200. 
Harris,  155. 
Harris,  Mr,  137. 
Hartopp,  "  Chicken,"  324. 
Harvey,  Parson,  160,  343. 
Haseltine,  Bob,  246. 
Hastings,  Marquis  of,  41. 
Hastings,  the  young  Marquis  of, 

69,'202. 

Haughton,  Bold,  224. 
Hawker,  Colonel  Peter,  183,  264, 

2S7. 
Hawkins,  Sir  Henry,  25,  342. 
Hawkins,  Sir  John,  286. 
Hay,  Willie,  352. 
Hayes,  Charlotte,  iq. 
Hayne,  Pea-Green,  332. 
Hayward,  292,  296. 
Heenan,  253. 
Henderson,  Joseph,  191. 
Herbert,  Captain  F.,  326. 
Herbert,  Charles,  186. 
Hesselteine,  Robert,  126. 
Hester,  John  W.,  335. 
Hewitt,  Jack,  197. 
Hickman,  Tom,  239. 
Hill,  Harry,  25,  342. 
Hill,  Jem,  84. 
Hills,  149. 

"  Hills,  Bobbie,"  322. 
Hills,  Jem,  81,  124. 
Hills,  Tom,  103. 
Hilton,  Mr,  309. 
Hirst,  James,  343. 
Hobson,  61. 
Hogg,  James,  304. 
Hogg,  Joe,  352. 
Holcroft,  Thomas,  39. 
Holman,  Lieutenant  James,  340. 
Holwell,  Sergeant,  279. 
Home,  Earl  of,  287,  303. 
Honey  wood,  Mr,  145. 
Hooper  the  Tinman,  36. 
Home,  315. 
Home,  Captain,  132. 
Horrocks,  Mr,  81. 
Horton,  P.  H.,  318. 
Hughes,  Tommy,  226. 
Humphries,     Gentleman,     239, 

248. 
Hutchinson,  Horace,  316. 

I'Anson,  Mr,  377. 

Jackson,  291. 

Jackson,  John,  20,  31,  225,  234, 

24s,  250,  377. 
Jacques,  60. 
Jacques,  Mr,  64. 
James  I.,  309. 
Jefferson,  Stephen,  126. 
"Jemmy,  Donkey,"  162. 
Jenner,  Sir  William,  100. 
Jock  o'  Dalgig,  213. 
John,  King,  215. 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS 


383 


Johnson,  Mr,  125. 
Johnson,  Tom,  239. 
Johnstone,  Hope,  246. 
Johnstone,  Mr,  376. 
Johnstone.  Sir  Frederick,  32. 
Jorrocks,  Mr,  351. 
Justice,  John,  18. 

Kavanagh,  Mr,  341. 
Kennedy,  Lord,  127,  311. 
Kennedy,  Sir  R.,  361. 
Kennedy,  T.  S.,  328. 
Kent,  Mr,  185. 
Kentfield,  Jonathan,  330. 
Kilburn,  John,  76. 
King,  Captain,  322. 
King,  Tom,  253,  257. 
Kinnaird,  Lord,  354. 
Kirkaldy,  Hugh,  313. 
Kitchener,  "Little,"  123. 
Kitchener,  Lord,  337. 
Kossuth,  Louis,  312. 

Lackey,  Sir  John,  130. 
Lackington,  Mr,  184. 
Lade,  Counsellor,  73. 
Lade,  Sir  John,  184. 
Lafane,  200. 
Lamb,  Captain,  108. 
Lamb,  Charlie,  356. 
Lane,  Rev.  C.  G.,  292,  296. 
Lane,  Captain  Douglas,  123. 
Lane,  Richard  Ouseley  Blake, 

348. 
Langan,  Jack,  239. 
Langham,  Nat,  243,  244. 
Larpent,  Mr,  360. 
Lawrence,  Charles,  128. 
Lawrence,  John,  8. 
Lay,  T.,  218. 
Lefevre,  Mr,  379. 
Legh,  Mr,  223. 

Lennox,  Lord  William,  164,  353. 
Le  Roules,  Peter,  17. 
Liddel,  Sir  Henrj',  229. 
Lillywhite,  291. 
Lisle,  Captain  de,  328. 
Little,  Captain,  93. 
Lock,  Captain,  90. 
Lockhart,  211. 
Lockyer,  292. 
Loffler,  Mr,  195. 
Lohmann,  George,  296. 
Lonsdale,  Lord,  123. 
Lowndes,  Selby,  124. 
Lowry,  374. 

Lowry,  Lieutenant,  133. 
Lucas,  A.  P.,  318. 
Lurgan,  Lord,  217. 
Lyttelton,  Alfred,  318. 
Lyttelton,  Rev.  Canon  Edward, 

318. 

Macdonald,  Lord,  277. 
Macdonough,  Alan,  92,  95. 
Mace,  Jem,  257,  348. 
MacGlennis,  Mr,  316. 
Machell,  Captain,  65. 
Mackenzie,  Dr,  211. 
Mackie,  James,  143. 
Maiden,  Joe,  174. 
Malcolm,  Sir  John,  136. 
Manning,  Cardinal,  247. 
Manning,  J.  Leech,  156. 
Mansell,  Dr,  Bishop  of  Bristol, 

148. 
Manton,  Joe,  263. 
Manwaring,  George,  321. 


Marlborough,     George,     Sixth 
Duke  of,  261. 

Marsden,  Job,  60. 
Marsham,  R.,  292. 
Martin,  Baron,  25,  343. 
Mason,  Jem,  88,  94,  97. 
Maxey,  George,  340. 
Maxwell,  Mr,  28S. 
Maxwell,  Sir  William,  341. 
Maynell,  Hugo,  298. 
M'Cann,  242. 
Mellish,  Colonel,  225,  338. 
Mellish,  Harry,  38. 
Mendoza,  Daniel,  145,  248. 
Meneller,  Mr,  181. 
Menzies,  Sergeant,  280. 
Merry,  James,  372. 
Messer,  Jemmy,  52. 
Messieux,  Mr,  315. 
Metcalf,  John,  337. 
Mexborough,  224. 
Mexborough,  Lord,  245. 
Meynell,  224. 
M'Gilvray,  339. 
Mildmay,  Frank,  M.P.,  327. 
Millbank,  Captain,  R.N.,  246. 
Milton,  Lord,  119. 
Milton,  Mat,  18. 
Milvain,  Thomas,  K.C.,  349. 
Minto,  Earl  of,  360. 
M'Kellar,  Alexander,  310. 
M'Mahon,  Colonel,  38. 
Molineux,  the  Black,  239,  254. 
Molyneux,  225. 
Molyneux,  Lord,  216. 
Molyneux,  Hon.  W.,  368. 
Monk,  Sir  Charles,  343. 
Monteath,  Earl  of,  2T5. 
Moore,  General,  177. 
Morherre,  Captain,  361. 
Morice,  Colonel,  330. 
Morris,  "  Old  Tom,"  311,  317. 
Morris,  "  Young  Tom,"  311,  317. 
Morrissey,  John,  241. 
Mostyn,  Sir  Edward,  92. 
Mountcharles,  Lord,  90. 
Musters,  "Jack,"  124,  298. 
M'Vittie,  281. 
Mynn,  Alfred,  291. 
Mytton,  John,  10,  180,  205,  246, 
281,  355. 

Napier,  Hon.  R.,  322. 
Napoleon,  124. 
Nash,  227. 
Neate,  Bill,  240. 
Neate,  Professor,  153. 
Nelson,  George,  20. 
Nicholson,  W.,  292. 
"Nimrod"   (C.    J.    Apperley), 

57,  123,  272. 
Norburton,  Egerton,  354. 
Norfolk,  Duke  of,  215. 
Norton,  Hon.  Fletcher,  245. 
North,  Colonel,  218. 

Oakeley,  Sir  Charles  W.  A.,  133. 

O'Brien,  64. 

O'Briens,  79. 

O'Callaghan,  79. 

O'Flanagan,  189. 

O'Kelly,  Colonel  Dennis,  14,  29, 

187. 
Oliphant,  Mr,  316. 
Oliver,  Tom,  225,  248. 
Olliver,  Tom,  67,  88,  95,  97. 
Orde-Powlett,       Hon.       Amias 

Charles,  378. 
Orde-Powlett,  Hon.  T.,  378. 


Orford,  Lord,  2ti. 
Orleans,  Duke  of,  15. 
Ormsby,  W.  M.,  336. 
Osbaldeston,  Squire  George,  86, 

100,  107,  124,    132,    161,   263, 

267,  270. 
Osborn,  Captain,  114. 
Osborne,  Bernal,  166. 
Osborne,  John,  51. 
Owen,  Tom,  226. 

Padwick,  27,  4r,  48. 

Page,  Mr,  89. 

Page,  Homer,  153. 

Page,  Sam,  184. 

Page- Wood,  344. 

Paget,  Sir  James,  66. 

Painter,  Ned,  239. 

Palmerston,  Lord,  352. 

Park,  Willie,  317. 

Parker,  Sir  Hyde,  287. 

Parr,  George,  292. 

Parsons,  John,  271. 

Paterson,  309. 

Pavis,  Arthur,  57. 

Payne,  George,  33,  298. 

Payne-Gallwey,  Sir  Ralph,  264. 

Payton,  Sir  Henry,  124. 

Peall,  335. 

Pearce,       Hen      (The       Game 

Chicken),  239,  252. 
Peat,  Mr,  377. 
Peat  Brothers,  327. 
Peel,  Colonel,  344. 
Peirce,  Billy,  38. 
Peltier,  Count,  272. 
Pepys,  303. 
Peterkin,  278. 
Peters,  Mrs,  371. 
Petre,  Mr,  20. 
Phillips,  Mr,  169. 
Phillipson,  John  Tharp,  270. 
Pierse,  "  Billy,"  52. 
Pierse,  Mrs,  52. 
Pierson,  Mr,  126. 
Pitch,  Fuller,  293,  297. 
Pinwire,  139. 
Plews,  Mark,  343. 
Pollock,  Chief  Baron,  347. 
Pook,  John,  333. 
Poole,  Bill,  241. 
Popham,  Sir  Home,  287. 
Portsmouth,  Lord,  57. 
Potter,  223. 
Powell,  92,  272. 
Powell,  Dr  Frank,  281. 
Prettyjohn,  Captain,  323. 
Price,  Mr,  of  Brynprys,  224. 
Prieto,  Henry,  335. 
Probyn,  Owen,  223. 
Pullman,  Private,  280. 

Queensberry,  Duke  of,  127. 

Radcliffe,  J.,  123. 
Ramsden,  373. 
Randal!,  Jack,  239. 
Rarey,  J.  S.,  190. 
Redgate,  291. 
Reeves,  129. 
Reid,  252. 
Rice,  George,  191. 
Richards,  77. 
Richards,  Miss,  214. 
Richards,  Myers,  18. 
Richardson,  Dr,  145. 
Richardson,  J.  M.  153. 
Richardson,  Mr,  281. 
Richmond,  Bill,  225. 


384 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS 


Richmond,  Duke  of,  20S. 
Ridley,  Sir  Matthew  White,  191. 
Ridsdale,  42,  343. 
Rivers,  Lord,  188. 
Roberts,  John,  332. 
Robertson,  Allan,  313,  314. 
Robinson,  "Crutch,"  18. 
Robinson,  Jem,  57,  63. 
Robertson,  Dr  R.,  287. 
Rochford,  Horace,  326. 
Rogers,  Sam,  22. 
Ros,  Lord  de,  265. 
Ross,  Captain  Horatio,  87,  127, 

237,  263,  277. 
Ross,  Edward,  278. 
Ross,  Hercules,  27S. 
Rothschild,  Baron,  134. 
Rothschild,  Nathan  de,  153. 
Roupell,  Mr,  294. 
Rous,  Admiral,  q,  58,  131,  221, 

298. 
Roylances,  224. 
Ruskin,  John,  250. 
Russell,  Lord,  342. 
Russell,  Rev.  John,  167, 175, 29S. 

Saddler,  69. 

Sadler,  Isaac,  49. 

Sait,  Mr,  51. 

Saltoun,  Lord,  353. 

Sam,  Dutch,  239. 

Sampson,  Phil,  24S. 

Saye  and  Sele,  Lord  (twelfth), 

260. 
Sayers,  Tom,  31,  240,  253. 
Scarborough,  Lord,  20. 
Scott,  Bill,  54,  60,  343. 
Scott,  John,  207,  343. 
Scott,  Lady  Ann,  304. 
Scott,  Lord  John,  70. 
Scott,  Master  Walter,  304. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  211,  286,  303. 
Scott,  William  Henry,  345. 
Scotton,  293. 
Seagrave,  Lord,  272. 
Sherer,  Major-General,  322. 
Sebright,  Sir  John,  270. 
Sebright,  Tom,  121,  124. 
Sedgewick,  Professor,  142. 
Seffart,  188. 

Sefton,  Countess  of,  215. 
Sefton,  Lord,  216,  224. 
Seymour,  Lord  Henry,  164. 
Shaftesbury,  Earl  of,  247. 
Sharpe,  Mr,  213. 
Shaw,  Jemmy,  244. 
Shawm,  73. 

Sherburne,  Sir  Richard,  363. 
Sherley,  Sir  Anthony,  321. 
Shipway,  Mr,  185. 
Shrewsbury,  Arthur,  296. 
Simmons,  A.,  115. 
Sinclair,  229. 
Sinclair,  Sir  John,  301. 
Slack,  John,  232. 
Slingsby,  Sir  Charles,  32. 
Sloan,  Tod,  187. 
Smith,  Barry,  269. 
Smith,  G.  P.,  43- 
Smith,  John  Wingrove,  42. 
Smith,  Mr,  123. 
Smith,  Mr  (of  Stone),  277. 
Smith,  Sydney,  60. 
Smith,   Thomas  Assheton,   124, 

17O1  17s.  361- 
Smith,     Tom,    of    Haniblcdon, 

17s,  263. 


Snewling,  Charles,  43. 
Snow,  Mr,  145. 
Somerville,  William,  351. 
Southampton,  Earl  of,  11. 
Speke,  Captain,  262. 
Spencer,  Earl,  125. 
Spofforth,  294. 
Spring,    Tom,    239,    245,    250, 

252. 
Stammers,  345. 
Stancliffe,  Captain,  338. 
Stanley,  Mr  Massey,  loi. 
Starkey,  Colonel,  379. 
Steel,  21,  33,  43. 
Steel,  A.  G.,  318. 
Stephens,  Sir  George,  199. 
Stephenson,  60. 
Stewart,  Colonel  Robert,  322. 
Stewart,  General,  C.B.,  322. 
Stockdale,  Dick,  343. 
Story,  207. 

Stradbroke,  Lord,  216. 
Strathmore,  Lord,  98. 
Stubbes,  303. 
Stubbs,  Mr,  16. 
Studd,  C.  T.,  318. 
Suffield,  Lord,  57. 
Sullivan,  Con,  194. 
Sussex,  Duke  of,  40. 
Sutton,  Sambo,  104,  142. 
Sutton,  Sir  Richard,  124,  267. 
Swan,  Tommy,  of  Bedale,  18. 
Swift,  Owen,  243,  245,  252. 
Swindell,  27. 
Symonds,  Charlie,  156. 

Tait,  Lieutenant  F.  G.,  315. 
Tail,  Rev.  Mr,  311. 
Tapley,  Mark,  61. 
Tarrant,  291,  296. 
Tattersall.  Messrs,  191. 
Tattersall,  Richard,  38,  356. 
Taubman,  Sir  John  Goldie,  206. 
Taylor,  Captain,  246. 
Taylor,  Captain  Frank,  54. 
Taylor,  General,  379. 
Templeman,  Sim,  60. 
Templer,  Mr,  172. 
Thennberg,  M.  de,  84. 
Thompson,  George,  122. 
Thompson,  Mr,  122. 
Thomson,    Colonel  Anstruther, 

175- 
Thornhill,  Mr  Cooper,  138. 
Thornton,  Colonel,  164,  2S5. 
Thornton,  Dick,  225. 
Thornton,  Mr  Lawrence,  379. 
Tilbury,  Mr,  94. 
Timson,  Ned,  372. 
"Tinman,  the  Flaming,"  248. 
Tomline,  Mr,  52. 
Toomer,  Mr,  270. 
Topham,  Major,  211. 
Townsend,  Marchioness  of,  215. 
Trollope,  Anthony,  175. 
Tulloch,  318. 
Turner,  go. 
Turner,  Ned,  240. 
Turnip,  180. 
Turpin,  104. 

Ullyct,  George,  296. 

Vanderbilt,  Mr,  186. 
Vane,  Sir  Harry,  229. 
Vaughan,  Dick,  145. 


Vernon,    Honourable    Richard, 

,39,  123. 

Vernon,  Mr,  160. 

Victoria,  Queen,  217. 

Vigne,  Mr,  133. 

Vivian,  Lord,  108,  378. 

Wales,  Frederick,  Prince  of,  11. 

Wales,  Prince  of  (George  IV.), 
IS,  36,  40,  226,  234,  245. 

Walker,  I.  D.,  296. 

Walker,  Mr,  40. 

Walpole,  Sir  Robert,  352. 

Walton,  Izaak,  286. 

Walton,  Mr,  195. 

Warburtons,  224. 

Ward  (of  Devon),  280. 

Ward,  Jem,  104,  240,  250,  253. 

Warde,  John,  175,  200,  283,  356. 

Waring,  Rev.  Mr,  288. 

Waterford,  Marquis  of,  108, 156 

Watson,  John,  327. 

Watson,  Robert,  327. 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  164,  265, 
360. 

Wells,  50,  60. 

Wemyss,  Captain,  162. 

Wemyss,  Earl  of,  181,  352. 

Westbury,  Lord,  346. 

Westenra,  Colonel,  195. 

Wharnclifle,  Lord,  119. 

Whitaker,  Mr,  225. 

Whitaker,  Rev.  Thomas  Dun- 
ham, 365. 

White,  Captain,  224. 

White,  Captain  John,  123. 

Whitney,  Mr,  327. 

Whyte  -  Melville  Major,  170, 
262,  354. 

Wilberforce,  Dr,  Bishop  of  Ox- 
ford, 167. 

Wilder,  Charles,  153. 

Wilkes,  George,  336. 

Willan,  Mr,  184,  272. 

"  Willie  Lang,"  312. 

Willing,  Mrs,  67. 

Willsher,  Edgar,  292. 

Wilson,  Richard,  1S6. 

Wilton,  Earls  of,  175,  360. 

Winchelsea,  Earl  of,  265. 

Winchester,  Bishop  of,  103. 

Winchester,  Dean  of,  344. 

Windham,  Right  Hon.  William, 
24S. 

Wise,  Dicky,  197. 

Witt,  Mr,  49. 

Wolseley,  Lord,  359. 

Wood,  Fred,  247. 

Wood,  Mr,  274. 

Wood,  Sir  Mark,  49. 

Wright,  Bill,  128. 

Wright,  Dr,  68. 

Wynn,  Sir  SVilliam,  225. 

Wyville,  Mr,  19. 

Xenophon,  215. 

Yates,  88. 

York,    Duke    of   (James    II.), 

308. 
Young,  Mr  Alexander,  377. 
Young,  Mr  Walter,  91. 
Yule,  "Tommy,"  358. 

Zetland,  Lord,  33. 


PRINTED    BV   NEILL  AND  CO.,    LTD.,    EDINUURGH. 


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